But he couldn’t even find the words to express what was troubling him.
Lakosch had been hugely nonplussed one time when he discovered that Lenin and Stalin weren’t Jewish. He had no idea where he’d picked up this curious bit of information, but it had been an article of faith with him. His disappointment on learning the truth shocked him and shook his confidence in Joseph Goebbels’s propaganda. Who on earth had ever come up with such a bunch of shit in the first place? Rosenberg[1] most likely, that Baltic German whose arse the Russians had given a good kicking. He’d probably bamboozled Adolf, too, with his fabrications and horror stories about Russia! After all, for a while Germany had rubbed along just fine with Soviet Russia, when they’d signed the Non-Aggression Pact that everyone had been so pleased about. And then along comes this snake-oil salesman from the Baltics, who gets Hitler all worked up over absolutely nothing! Maybe Stalin wanted just the same thing as Hitler, maybe he wanted socialism as well – and this entire war was nothing but a stupid misunderstanding? If only the two of them could get their heads together, in private. Hadn’t there been some rumour recently about Stalin and Hitler possibly meeting in Turkey?
That would sort things out all right – for the troops trapped at Stalingrad, too. It would mean the end of this war! He was at a loss to think how it might otherwise come to a sensible conclusion.
The little ginger-haired driver would ruminate long and hard on such hopes and deliberations while picking lice out of his clay-caked shirt, and would lie awake at night cogitating on these matters while planes droned overhead and the bunker shook gently from the shockwaves of distant bomb blasts. His freckled face took on a tortured expression from the effort of thinking.
‘I dunno what’s the matter with you! Are you hungry or something?’ asked Geibel anxiously, offering Lakosch a bit of crispbread.
‘Don’t talk such utter crap, you simpleton!’ Lakosch spat back venomously. Casting a pitying glance at Geibel, he added: ‘It’s all right for you, mate. You’ve got the consolation of being a moron!’
And now, it seemed, Private Lakosch would get to wear his Iron Cross.
Some time ago, the sergeant at the Adjutant’s Office had hinted that the application that divisional Staff HQ had submitted for Lakosch to receive his decoration had been approved by the Army High Command. On the day before Christmas Eve, the little driver was ordered to report to Lieutenant Colonel Unold. Before setting off, Lakosch spent quite some time trying to get the worst of the dirt off his battledress tunic, picking off the most obvious lice from his collar and washing his face and hands in the snow outside the bunker. Geibel observed his ablutions with positive reverence.
‘Here, Lanky,’ said Lakosch with good-natured condescension, ‘you know the story about the old dear who asks the soldier on leave: “Where’s your Iron Cross, you young hero?” And he replies: “My platoon leader’s wearing it for me!” That’s the way it is in the army, see. You’ve still got a lot to learn! Chin up, lad! I’ll put the thing on for your benefit soon as I get back! Anyhow, there’s another “Order of the Frost” being awarded this winter, an extra-thick medal with two gilded icicles hanging off it. You’ll get one of those as well, for fearless teeth-chattering in the face of the enemy!’
He slapped Geibel, who was relieved to see the driver in a good mood again, on the shoulder and sauntered over to the chief of staff’s bunker with a spring in his step. One of the principal didactic aims of the Prussian parade ground is to instil respect for more senior ranks. And this respect does not even desert a common soldier who has been at Staff HQ long enough to observe all the human failings of his superiors at close quarters. So it was that Lakosch tiptoed down the steps leading to Unold’s bunker and listened apprehensively outside the wooden door to check that he wasn’t interrupting anyone. The sound of conversation came from within. That cold, impersonal voice was Lieutenant Colonel Unold’s, without a doubt, while the other seemed to belong to Captain Engelhard. Lakosch resolved to go in. He was just raising his hand to knock when something suddenly made him pause.
‘…saving the world from Bolshevism,’ said a voice, clearly audible through the badly fitting slats of the door. ‘Don’t pay any attention to that nonsense, Engelhard! It’s just old wives’ tales told to frighten children. We can tell that sort of thing to our men here. You see, I was here once before, before the war; I was in Lipetsk helping the Russians organize their fledgling air force. I know these people. They’re not after world domination. They’d have been jolly glad to have avoided this war, believe you me!’
Lakosch held his breath. What was going on? He strained to listen. Up above, a sentry’s footsteps clumped past, drowning out the captain’s reply. Now Unold was speaking again.
‘Why us? Simple! We have to conquer land in the east, create Lebensraum! That was all there already in Mein Kampf. Or do you think big business gave Hitler the money to found his party and churn out propaganda year after year for nothing? Their payoff is factories in southern Russia, and the wheat fields of Ukraine and Kuban.’
Lakosch propped himself with his hand against the damp mud wall of the bunker entrance. Unold’s sharp voice jabbed at him like knives.
The captain’s answer was more impassioned than was customary for him. He spoke of Hitler’s plans, the Nazi Party programme, and German socialism. Lakosch was swept up by Engelhard’s words and found himself unconsciously nodding in agreement with every sentence. ‘Yes, yes! Quite right! Let’s see what he has to say to that!’
‘But Engelhard!’ Unold interrupted, and Lakosch saw in his mind’s eye the lieutenant colonel’s pallid face and the crooked smile that was never reflected in his grey eyes. ‘I do believe Christmas is making you sentimental. You need to take a sober view of these things. “National Socialism” – what is that, exactly? It was a bluff, a propaganda bluff of the kind that only Hitler can pull off. It effectively took the wind out of the Reds’ sails… Sure, after the war, they’ll settle a few farmers here in the east, why not? But it’s other people who’ll be making the big money. Look what’s happened in Dnepropetrovsk, and in Kiev! They’re all there already: Allianz, Deutsche Bank, Krupp, Rheinmetall-Borsig, Reichswerke Hermann Göring, etcetera, etcetera, with all their branches and head offices. Didn’t you read what Goebbels had to say in Gdynia recently… No? Hang on a mo – now, where did I put…? Oh yes, here it is, you really ought to read this! It’s all there in black and white: “We’re fighting for oil and iron, for swaying wheat fields. That’s what inspires our soldiers, and that’s what they give their lives for!” – and he goes on: “Let no one imagine that we Germans have suddenly been gripped by a new morality. No, our first priority is to make a pile!” See, right there! What do you say to that?’
Lakosch could feel little beads of sweat forming on his brow. His breathing was becoming more laboured, preventing him from hearing properly. He was only just able to make out what the captain said in response.
‘So what you’re saying, then, is that we were spoiling for this war and we’re to blame for it!’ was the gist of Engelhard’s reply. ‘I refuse to believe that, it’s simply untrue! Sure, it may well be the case that, during the war, some… Look, appetite comes with eating. But how did it all start? We had an agreement with Russia. Russia broke it and stabbed us in the back by signing a mutual assistance pact with Yugoslavia. That meant war! We couldn’t have done things any differently even if we’d wanted to.’
1
Alfred Rosenberg (1893–1946) was one of the principal theorists of the Nazi movement. A Baltic German, Rosenberg was instrumental in devising Nazism’s racial policies and advocated a new mystical ‘religion of the blood’ to replace Christianity. He was sentenced to death at the Nuremberg trials and hanged.