Lieutenant Dierk rubbed his hands nervously on his thighs, as a gamut of conflicting emotions passed across his young face. Then he forced his features to assume a mask of resolute severity. ‘I really don’t know why you’re always talking about me,’ he said sharply. ‘And in terms of my morality. What we’re talking about here is the principle of “What is right is what serves the German people”, and that’s the guiding principle of the movement we’re all part of. When all’s said and done, you, gentlemen, are National Socialists too!’
The room suddenly fell silent. Their faces froze as if hit by an icy blast. Breuer felt like a curtain had been pulled back in front of him for a few moments. Slowly, and with a shaky-sounding voice, he heard himself saying:
‘Yes, of course… we’re all… National Socialists.’
Lakosch had of late lapsed into a state of rather sad introspection. Nor, it seemed, was Senta’s disappearance the sole cause of this. He never spoke about the dog, and appeared to have forgotten about her. He’d followed the surprising interrogation of the Russian airman with more interest than he let on. The evening of that same day, he approached Breuer.
‘Lieutenant, sir, I wanted to ask you, sir… That business about socialism and freedom in Russia that the prisoner mentioned, that’s all a load of hogwash, right, Lieutenant?’
Breuer hesitated for a moment before replying.
‘Yes, Lakosch,’ he said finally, and with the very first word he uttered, he knew he was speaking against his own convictions but that he was duty-bound, as a German officer – as a National Socialist – to lie. ‘Of course it’s hogwash. You know that, surely! You’ve read that in any number of places and heard how the people here are oppressed and tortured! You know all this yourself, man!’
As he spoke his words came out ever faster, as he worked himself up into a convulsive frenzy.
‘Of course it’s all a con, a lowdown, dirty con trick! Fairy tales, opium for the people! It’s… it’s a complete…’
He broke off and left the room. Lakosch stared after him in astonishment.
The following day, when Breuer asked Endrigkeit how the Russian airman was getting on, he found the old officer in an unusually emotional state.
‘He’s dead,’ Endrigkeit told him, his small eyes beneath his bushy brows revealing a suspicious gleam. ‘That’s right – dead! Here’s what happened: so, this morning, I sent my two lads, Emil and Krause, off with him to the collection point, and on the way there, right in the middle of the street, the sodding bloke gets it into his head to do a runner, and hares off across country like an idiot! My lads can’t believe their eyes. Sheer bloody suicide! They call out to him not to be so damned stupid, and start chasing him. But there’s nothing for it, he refuses to stop and just keeps on running. Zigzagging all over the place, like a hare, they said. He’d gone completely crazy. Anyway, Emil’s finally forced to open fire. First shot, straight through the head. Stone dead on the spot.’
The captain wiped his hand across his face. Momentarily, a surge of suspicion welled up in Breuer.
‘Captain,’ he asked uneasily, ‘your men – they didn’t… I mean, they haven’t gone and…’ His words tailed off; the captain looked up at him in surprise.
‘What, you’re thinking they might have… just for the hell of it? Now listen here, lad, this is my lads you’re talking about! I told them all about you interrogating him. Dead impressed with him, they were. No, no, it’s out of the question, Breuer – the bloke had a death wish.’
Meanwhile, all the hoo-ha about Manstein had died down. Some people maintained they could still hear the sounds of artillery fire and battle in the south, and someone claimed to have sighted from the western front German armour moving once more along the road above the Don escarpment; even so, the rallying cry, repeated time and again by the Army High Command, of ‘Hang in there – Manstein will get us out!’ had by now lost much of its impact. Even Count Willms had become positively monosyllabic with the information he divulged latterly. He pointed to the great difficulties in launching such an attack, especially during winter, and urged everyone to remain calm and be patient.
One day the mess orderlies to whom Lakosch had given some of the white flour he’d purloined sent him a dinner invitation, which hinted at some great treats in store. The rather draughty wooden bunker next to the kitchen was set out for a banquet. The table was laid with an old general staff map for a tablecloth and three candles. A wonderful smell of roasting pervaded the space. It grew even more intense when Krämer came in with a tray and set down in front of each of them an aluminium plate carefully covered with a piece of paper. Lieutenant Colonel Unold was accustomed to having his breakfast served in this way. The NCO in charge of the mess rose from his chair, arranged his permanently grinning face into a semblance of gravitas, and opened the banquet by saying grace:
‘I won’t hear a word said against jacket potatoes and herring!’ laughed Lakosch. ‘If you could magic that up, that’d do me just fine.’
Cautiously he uncovered his plate. The others kept a close, expectant watch on his eyes, which grew steadily larger and rounder. Before him lay a huge schnitzel, framed by two large Thuringian dumplings in a fragrant caramelized onion gravy. Lakosch had been prepared for a big surprise, but this went beyond his wildest dreams. Almost in reverence, he sliced into the juicy, wonderfully tender meat.
‘Oh, lads,’ he enthused, ‘what a feast! I haven’t eaten anything this good in years. It tastes just like veal. Now, don’t you try telling me this is horsemeat, no way! I’d give anything to know where you got hold of it, though!’
‘Don’t ask, just eat!’ the NCO told him, while the rest sat around with sly grins on their faces.
‘There’s more where that came from if you’re still hungry,’ the NCO reassured him. He felt like a millionaire who was treating some poor wretch to the time of his life just for once. Lakosch felt very comfortable in that role – he loosened his belt and devoured the schnitzel like a ravening beast. The others got stuck in to their food with almost as much gusto, while the mess chief regaled the company with jokes. The atmosphere grew appreciably livelier, especially after Lance-Corporal Wendelin produced a bottle of cherries steeped in rum of dubious provenance. Lakosch, too, felt moved to treat his fellow diners to some gems from his inexhaustible supply of witticisms and anecdotes.
‘Have you heard the one about the walking stick?’ he asked, his mouth still half-full of schnitzel and dumplings. ‘No? Well, there’s these two friends from Silesia, Antek and Franzek. One day, Antek runs into Franzek on the street, and he’s carrying a new walking stick that’s much too tall for him. So Antek says to Franzek: “You don’t look too comfortable with that – where’d you get it?” “Inherited it from my uncle!” replies Franzek proudly. “Well, if I was you,” suggests Antek, ever the practical one, “I’d shorten it a bit.” “Nah, that’s no good,” says Franzek, “then I’d have nothing to hold on to.” “No, not at the top – at the bottom!” his friend replies. “How come?” asks Franzek, baffled. “It’s the top bit that’s too tall!”’
3
Dr Robert Ley was, for the entire duration of the Second World War, head of the