‘Yugoslavia!’ scoffed Unold. ‘You know, Engelhard, I really rate you. You’ll make a first-rate staff officer one day. But sometimes, and please don’t take this amiss, you’re just like a child. If you go after a particular goal in politics, you can find a thousand ways and means of justifying it. But listen here, will you! What I’m about to say to you is for your ears only, and you must promise never to repeat it to anyone else. Hitler gave the order to prepare for war against Russia way back, on the twenty-second of October 1940! Yes, that’s right, 1940, just a few months after we’d conquered France – in other words, long before the business with Yugoslavia! How do I know that? I was attached to Army High Command at the time. We played a key role in drawing up the plans. We were pretty much the only people in the know. Even the C-in-Cs were out of the loop back then. They were blindsided by that pantomime about “Operation Sealion” – you know, the famous invasion of England that was actually never seriously contemplated at the time.’
A pregnant silence filled the room next to where Lakosch stood waiting. The bunker oven crackled and spat noisily. His heart was thumping away like the piston of a steam engine. Outside, a plane droned past, and somewhere a shot was fired.
Then the lieutenant colonel was speaking again, and this time his cold voice had a metallic edge. ‘Don’t go living in a dream world, Engelhard! That’s no way for people like us to behave. You must learn to see Hitler for what he is. The thing to remember about him is that his urge for power knows no bounds. He’s absolutely ruthless and unerringly consistent in his pursuit of power. He couldn’t give a damn about the “great stupid flock of sheep, the patient but mutton-headed German people” – those are Hitler’s own words. He doesn’t have any compunction about exploiting or discarding his financial backers, his old comrades and friends as it suits him. He’s got no sentimental or moral inhibitions – and that, Engelhard, is what makes him great! There’s something of the Nietzschean “superman” about him; he truly is “beyond good and evil”. That sentimental-sounding stuff he trots out about “national community” and “socialism” and so forth, and if need be shedding the odd tear, are just bait to lure in women and chancers when he needs their support. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have any followers, since your average person couldn’t bear the sight of this genius unfiltered; they’d go insane at the sight of him, in just the same way that Nietzsche’s ideas drove him mad. You really ought to read some Nietzsche, Engelhard! He’s the only philosopher worth reading. Then you’ll understand Hitler. And only then will you be a true National Socialist! Hitler’s the only statesman – in fact the only person full-stop – for whom I have any respect.’
After the event, Lakosch was at a loss to explain how he entered the room, what the lieutenant colonel said to him when he pinned the medal with its black, white and red ribbon to his chest, or how he found his way back to his own bunker. In a state of dazed unease, his let his comrades’ congratulations wash over him. His father’s face loomed up before him, that tired, embittered face, whose lines and creases were deeply ingrained with coal dust even on his days off. What would his old man have said? ‘Hitler – that means war!’ Lakosch began to understand at last…
A short while later, Lance Corporal Lakosch removed the ribbon from his tunic and put it in his pocket. When Breuer, with a shake of his head, informed him that, according to army regulations, he was required to wear the decoration for twenty-four hours after receiving it, he mumbled something about ‘too bad’ and refused to put the ribbon back on in the days that followed. And because Sergeant Major Harras no longer had his beady eye on the men of the Staff HQ, nobody noticed its absence.
In the Intelligence Section’s bunker, all the preparations had been made for Christmas Eve. Granted, no one had even thought about trying to put up a tree; no doubt, such a thing couldn’t be had for love nor money throughout the entire Cauldron. Instead, they’d hung a barrel hoop from the low plank roof and wound strips of green paper and pine twigs around it; dangling from it were the shiny dog tags and wristbands that Corporal Herbert used as currency when trading with the civilian population, along with shiny silver and gold tinsel made from the foil from inside old cigarette packets. But the most valuable things on the makeshift Christmas wreath, which they’d been keeping safe for ages, were four solitary little wax candles. A more substantial candle, which Lakosch had acquired from somewhere in exchange for tobacco, had been carefully dissected into three bits and used to make wall lights, set in wooden holders artistically whittled over many days by the skilful hands of Sonderführer Fröhlich.
Since early morning, a festive and reflective atmosphere had reigned in the bunker. Everyone was making a special effort to be friendly and helpful. Lanky Geibel, with his round, doll-like eyes set in a guileless child’s face, sat daydreaming. Herbert, as fussy and bustling as a housewife, busied himself with trying to improve the look of the place. The main thing preying on his mind was that he hadn’t had a chance to bake anything. Sadly, he contemplated his stock of flavourings and essences, and went off on flights of fancy, dreaming up audacious recipes for artificial marzipan and all manner of honey cakes. Today, even Fröhlich resisted talking about the military and political situation, and instead told tales of Yuletide celebrations past at his father’s parsonage near Riga, and the little ‘Adler Trumpf’ saloon car he’d surprised his wife with four years ago at Christmas. Only Lakosch mooned about the bunker, glowering and taciturn. Towards midday, Captain Fackelmann put in an appearance; after Harras’s departure, he’d assumed responsibility once more for supervising the staff’s troops.
‘Sad to report, lads,’ he declared glumly, ‘there’s nothing extra today. Half a pack of crispbread and three ciggies each: that’s your lot. I wish I could treat you, but there’s nothing to be had – absolutely nothing, believe me!’
They believed him. They knew he’d give his eye teeth to be able to present the men with a slap-up five-course meal today. But they could clearly see that he wasn’t getting enough to eat himself. His appearance had changed alarmingly over the past few weeks. His face was as yellow as a quince and heavily lined, and the skin hung down from his cheeks in limp bags. ‘Just a touch of jaundice,’ he’d reply to concerned enquiries after his health, and with a lame attempt at humour would go on: ‘In years to come, if anyone asks me if I was one of those who came back from Stalingrad, I can say: “Yes, in part! When I went there I weighed a hundred and ninety-three pounds, now I’m only a hundred and thirty. The rest of me stayed there.”’
But the poor fellow looked so thoroughly wretched it was really difficult raising a laugh in response.
‘Incidentally,’ the captain said as he was leaving, ‘the CO’s given us leave to dip into the iron rations for Christmas. Dunno if that’s of any use to you…?’
They smiled sheepishly at one another. Yeah, right, the iron rations – they’d been used up weeks ago, for Christ’s sake! When it grew dark outside, Breuer lit the candles. An unfamiliar warm glow suffused the cramped space and was reflected in the silver tinsel on the wreath and the bright eyes of the six men who sat silently watching the flickering flames. And as the smell of melting candle wax and crackling pine twigs spread, a breath of home wafted through the bunker. Breuer picked up his mouth organ and began softly playing the old tunes of Christmas Eve.
One after the other, the men joined in: Herbert’s light, fresh tenor, Lieutenant Wiese’s rather quavery baritone and Fröhlich’s booming bass, which threatened to drown out everyone else.