The Cross of Iron (56 page)

He opened the window and leaned far out. The sky was studded with stars. But they did not seem near, as they were at home when he saw them above the trees. Here they were inconceivably remote. He recalled how often at this time of day, when the sun sank beyond the trees and the clangour of bells rang across the mountains, he would sit down on top of a hill somewhere, fold his hands and murmur an Ave Maria. And think of Barbara. Barbara with her quiet, grave face who wore her braid of fair hair into a crown about her head. He could hear her voice in his ears so distinctly that for a second it seemed to him she must be standing at his side, and he looked back into the dark room. Then he sighed and closed the window. Were it not for the war, he thought, we would have been married long ago.

Since it was still too early to go to sleep, he decided to take a stroll. Kern and Maag were with Krüger, playing cards. Buckling on his belt and plumping his cap over his unruly hair, he left the house. Outside he encountered Maag.

‘Game over already?’ Faber asked.

‘No,’ Maag said crossly. ‘I just got sick of it and quit.’

‘Were you bickering?’

Maag shook his head. ‘No, not that, I‘m just sick of letting Steiner get under my skin. He’s at it again. Since that business last night he’s been in a stinking mood.’

‘When did he get back?’ Faber asked.

‘I don’t know. Schnurrbart says he went to the regiment command post during the night. Schnurrbart and Krüger waited up for him till two and then went to bed. He was back this morning. But won’t say a word about it all. Are you on duty?’

‘No, not today. Tomorrow morning at six.’

‘Bloody time for sentry duty,’ Maag murmured, lighting a cigarette. ‘I’d sooner have it at night. Then at least I can sleep in the morning.’

They walked together across the street, Faber remained taciturn. Although Maag tried several times to induce him to talk, he could not get a decent conversation going. Finally he stood still, saying: ‘I’m going back home. I have to stand sentry in an hour. Till then I can catch a bit of a nap.’

‘Hardly worth it,’ Faber said. ‘Your head just feels heavy when you have to get up.’

Maag looked around. They had wandered a considerable distance beyond the company sector into a district strange to them. All around stood four-story houses, apparently unoccupied. ‘We might take a look at those dives from inside,’ he said enterprisingly. ‘Maybe we’ll come across something worth taking.’ 

‘That’s forbidden,’ Faber replied. ‘You know a special order of the day has been issued about plundering.’

‘What’s plundering in a place like this? It doesn’t matter much whether the stuff’s smashed to bits by shellfire or whether I pocket it.’

‘In the one case it’s plundering, in the other fate,’ Faber said firmly. ‘I won’t have anything to do with it.’

Maag shook his head in disgust. ‘What a man you are,’ he said irritably. ‘Haven’t you ever liberated anything?’

‘Not unless it was absolutely necessary for me, no. Besides, it’s pitch dark in the houses.’

‘I have a flashlight with me.’

‘The MPs are constantly patrolling,’ he said. ‘If they see a light in a window, they’ll investigate and you’ll be in for a rough time. Take some good advice and keep clear of that kind of thing.’ 

‘The bastards,’ Maag cursed the MPs automatically. He knew quite well that Faber was right. After a few more resentful murmurs, he turned to go. Faber joined him and they retraced their steps. ‘I’ll be glad when we’re back in regular positions again,’ Maag said. ‘This here gets me. Half front and half rear-echelon. And the brass so bored they spend all their time thinking up ways to annoy us.’ He spat on the ground and added threateningly: ‘When things start getting hot here, they’d better keep out of my way. I might take a notion to puncture his spine for him.’ 

‘That’s just talk.’

‘What do you mean?’ Maag suddenly flared up. ‘You don't know me very well.’

‘We don’t know each other at all,’ Faber replied thoughtfully. 

Their pace slowed. ‘What’s that about we don’t know each other?’ Maag asked in astonishment.

Faber thrust his hands into his pockets. ‘Of course we don’t know each other,’ he said quietly. ‘About all we do know is each other’s names.’

‘I suppose that’s true,’ Maag said, taken aback. After a pause he asked: ‘Do you happen to be married?’

Faber shook his head. ‘No, the war interfered.’

‘For me too.’ Maag nodded gloomily. ‘The damned war. If it weren’t for the war I’d have...’ He stopped abruptly.

‘What?’ Faber asked.

Maag laughed in embarrassment. ‘That’s something else again. You see...’ He hesitated until they had crossed a street. ‘I have a girl. You too?’

‘Yes.’

‘What’s her name?’

‘Barbara.’

‘Nice name, ' Maag said. ‘My girl’s named Monika.’

They walked on in silence, Maag turning over the idea that had suddenly occurred to him. He had never spoken about his impotence to anyone, for fear of ridicule. But there was something about Faber’s quiet manner that made Maag think he might be helpful. The difficulty was beginning. Several times he started to speak. Finally he stood still and grasped Faber’s arm. ‘A fellow can talk with you, can’t he?’ he asked uncertainly.

Faber looked at his face, whose freckles showed through the pale skin even at night. ‘I think so,’ he said.

‘That’s good.’ Maag sighed. ‘I suppose you’ve been with your Barbara, haven’t you?’

‘Been with her? What do you mean?’

‘You know what I mean.’ Maag gave an embarrassed laugh. His uncertainty was increasing and he already regretted having brought up the subject. But he made a last try. ‘I don’t know how you say it in your district. I mean, when you go to bed with a woman.’

Faber’s expression hardened. ‘In my district you don’t go to bed with a woman until you’re married,’ he declared with emphasis.

Maag gaped at him. He realized his mistake and tried to cover up. ‘That’s what I mean.’

‘That’s not what you mean,’ Faber replied. ‘I told you I wasn’t married.’

‘I forgot,’ Maag mumbled.

Faber studied him silently, then turned and walked on. Maag followed him, downcast. There just isn’t anybody, he thought bitterly. A fellow can’t talk to any of these idiots. Head bowed, shoulders slumping, he trotted along behind Faber, his feet leaden, his soul heavy with disappointment.

Faber walked swiftly. Even after years in the army conversations of this sort still filled him with disgust and annoyance. They can never talk decently about a woman, he thought, repelled.

They were approaching their company sector when Faber suddenly paused. From a house on the right side of the street had come a strange whining sound that cut one to the heart. It was not something you could miss or pass by.

Maag, too, had stopped. They looked across the street toward a dark shadow in front of a door. The shadow started moving slowly toward them. ‘A dog,’ Maag whispered in surprise. It was in fact a big watch-dog that limped across the street toward them, its right hindpaw held up in the air.

‘Damned mutt,’ Maag said, raising his fist threateningly.

‘Let him alone,’ Faber said sharply.

The dog stopped and whimpered. Faber held out his hand toward it and began coaxing it. ‘Come,’ he said again and again, ‘come over here.’

‘What do you want with the filthy beast?’ Maag asked irritably.

Faber did not reply. He went up to the dog, which raised its head trustfully and began licking his hand. ‘I have to go,’ Maag said. ‘My tour begins in five minutes.’

Faber looked around at him. ‘Nobody’s keeping you.’

For a moment Maag glared angrily. Then he turned on his heel and stalked off, offended. They’ll feel sorry for a dog, he thought bitterly. All the sympathy in the world for a dog!

Faber examined the dog’s forepaw. As he ran his fingers carefully over the leathery skin, he came upon a thorn buried deep between the pads. The animal seemed aware that he wanted to help it, and held still. When he gripped the thorn between his fingernails and pulled it out with a jerk, the dog’s body twitched and it whimpered softly. ‘There, it’s done,’ Faber said soothingly, patting the moist snout that rubbed gratefully against his hand. He wondered whether he should take the dog along to his quarters. But perhaps the others would object. And he did not know where he could get food for it. Rations here in the bridgehead were not exactly generous. On the other hand, he could not leave the poor creature to its fate.

Hoping it would follow him, he walked on a few steps. But when he turned around, he saw that the dog had stood still and was watching him go. Now it hobbled across the street to its old place in front of the door, crouched down and whimpered softly. Faber went over to it and sat down on the doorstep beside it. He drew his knees up, and the dog laid its narrow head on his lap and began eagerly licking his hands. Tenderly, Faber stroked the shaggy hide. The street was dark and silent. After a while man and dog sat still. It occurred to Faber that they had much in common. The only difference was that he knew he was homesick and the dog only dumbly sensed it. There was some comfort in their being here together, comfort for the man from the valleys of the Black Forest and for the forgotten dog who had been driven by homesickness back to the threshold of a deserted house....

The dog kept its eyes closed. It felt the hand upon its back, and its whimpering stopped. Now and then, Faber saw, it raised its head and looked at the door. But there was no one here to let it in. Nor were there any of the familiar faces, the loved smells. Everything was strangely different, and the dog was mournful because of that. When Faber stood up, it watched his every movement with anxious attentiveness. Its eyes seemed to be begging, and Faber felt his heart grow heavy. ‘I cannot help you,’ he said softly. ‘I am as forlorn as you.’ When he turned away at last and walked off, the dog’s head dropped down on its paws, and it whimpered. Faber bit his lip and hurried away. A great, helpless rage was in him.

IT WAS OCTOBER by now, and the order for departure came as a complete surprise. It snapped the men out of the reflective quiet of the preceding weeks. But they were accustomed to such changes and quickly adjusted to the idea. During the night they were relieved by a marine unit and marched east over the dark roads. Steiner walked at the head of the second platoon, alongside Lieutenant März, who occasionally threw a glance back at the company behind him. They said little to one another; each was busy with his thoughts. Steiner was in a bad humour. That morning he had had a talk with Fetscher who opined that to his mind the divisions in the bridgehead had already been written off by the army. ‘There’ll be a second Stalingrad,’ he had said. ‘The Russians are already close to Melitopol, and in a few days they’ll reach Perekop. The Crimea is lost, and us along with it.’

Steiner tried to shake off these gloomy thoughts. Out of the corners of his eyes he looked at the face of his company commander. Steiner had spent a good deal of time with him of late. Once it had developed that März was a passionate chess player, they had whiled away a good many evenings in the company command post, playing chess and afterward talking of this and that. In the course of their talks it had come out that März was related by marriage to the regimental adjutant. This information had rather disturbed Steiner, reminding him as it did of his last encounter with Kiesel and the ugly scene with Brandt. Although several weeks had passed since that night without any gesture from Brandt, and although Stransky was letting him alone, he still had the gnawing sensation that the hardest contest still lay before him. As he studied the lieutenant’s face he again became aware that März had never remotely referred to the incident in the regimental command post, although Kiesel must certainly have told him about it. There was some method behind this silence, Steiner thought. He looked back along the line.

‘How far do we still have to go?’ Schnurrbart asked. He was marching beside Krüger and Kiesel in the first row of the platoon, his pipe in his mouth. März, who had caught his words, shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea. There’s supposed to be a truck column somewhere that’s going to pick us up.’

‘Truck column?’ Krüger growled. ‘As soon as I hear that I feel sick to my stomach. That means all hell has let loose somewhere.’

März tramped out his cigarette butt and nodded. ‘That may be. But not in the bridgehead, for sure. At present our whole sector is quiet.’

‘Ivan’s had a bellyful,’ Schnurrbart muttered, spitting sideways on the ground.

In the darkness Steiner tried to regain his sense of direction. They had already been marching for four hours, and it must be way past midnight. This area was strange to him. They had not followed the highway leading westward, but a country road tending more in a south-westerly direction. The road rose and fell endlessly over hilly country that reminded him of the area around Krymskaya. Everything seemed black, monotonous, limitless and terribly abandoned. Under their nailed boots fine sand squeaked and in spite of the darkness they could see the kicked-up dust that hung like a translucent veil above their heads and made breathing difficult. Up ahead in the ranks of the first company a song was started. But it did not catch on, and faded wearily away amid the dull tramp of boots. Occasionally a man stood out of the line of march with his back to the road. They passed by him as though he were a tree. Weariness crawled from their legs into their brains, making them dead-sleepy. The three behind Steiner had locked arms and were marching with closed eyes. Alternately one of them would open his eyes to see the direction, and would gently press the others toward the middle of the road, so that they would not stumble into the ditch. That was a technique they had developed over thousands of miles. It enabled them to march half-asleep; their legs seemed to separate from the rest of the body and become independent units which kept moving automatically. Steiner walked with drooping head, staring at the shoes of the company commander beside him, who took long strides and whistled under his breath. Once again Steiner found himself thinking about Brandt. The more time that passed since that interview, the more conscience-stricken he felt about it. The devil must have got into me, he thought, shaking his head. He could not understand himself. Several times he had wrestled with the thought of sending a letter of apology. But there was a stubborn defiance in him that forbade such a step. Least of all could he understand the commander’s conduct. The longer he thought about that, the more inexplicable it seemed. He would have accepted any punishment with a shrug, accepting it as the natural result of his insolence. But this mysterious silence on the commander’s part tormented him; it simply did not fit in with what he knew of the way superiors acted. Altogether, it was a queer business.