We watched, trembling with cold and despair. But no one questioned the sanity of the men who remained in line. We knew that, when our turn came, we would do the same thing. At that time and place, hope was worth everything — a fortune which there was no question of staking. Everyone there had invested everything their torments had spared them in the possibilities which those ships represented.
The planes came over again, and I hid my eyes so that I couldn’t see. The rhythm was too horrible, and in the end I was only human, not God. I hadn’t died on the Cross, and had no right to watch.
The days went by. Memel no longer existed, except on strategic maps. The front had shrunk, but a great many men had embarked. However, there were still thousands waiting their turn, shuttling between the positions they still had to hold and the semi-tombs where they slept their mutilated sleep. I still watched, through my dazed eyes, as these thousands wandered through the heights of tragedy, in a silence which, to my ears, drowned out all the noises of the earth. They had been stripped of their human condition, and I watched them in hideous loneliness, weeping internal tears as heavy as mercury.
How long were we there? For how many lifetimes? It is no longer possible to say, and the world will never know. I feel now as though I was born to experience that test. Memel had become the summit of my life, the ultimate peak, with only the infinite beyond it. We felt that after Memel nothing of us would remain, and that the life we would experience in the future would be like the crutches one offers to a cripple. Memel is the tomb of my life, the absolute. The silence which enveloped our groups had a miraculous quality, which allowed each of the living dead we had become to think about what would follow our misery. However foolish it may seem today, the thought that our wretchedness would be recognized later, even posthumously, was a comfort. Today, even this last concern has disappeared. Anything which might be said about our misery depends on a system of interpretation which is believed to be perfect. But the spectacle of Memel will not even be helped by the last judgment.
It is growing dim and vanishing without ever having been seen.
We had left our cellar for a pillbox whose gun had been destroyed. I had stuffed my belongings into the space formerly occupied by the gun. Following my example, Hals, Schlesser, and another fellow had done the same. Wiener, Lindberg, Pferham, and seven or eight others occupied what was left of the turret itself. Our new lodging was less humid than the cellar, but that was not the reason for our transfer. We had shifted because in our new quarters we were closer to the various points we might have to reach at maximum speed. Our defense perimeter had shrunk even further because once again the Russians had become interested in us. The German troops still holding the tiny Memel stronghold had to face the possibility of serious attacks which might prove decisive. As it was, we were often obliged to approach our positions with extreme caution. Our men, driven beyond desperation, sometimes surrendered to the Russians, who would then put on their captives’ rags and wait for the relief.
Our wretched men had fallen into this trap several times. Even more often, in their exhaustion, they had failed to notice Ivan crawling toward them until it was too late. Then Ivan would replace them.
Wiener and two other fellows had almost fallen into one of these traps. The veteran had spotted it in time, and had exploded into the kind of rage we knew so well.
“He saved us,” stammered one of the men who’d been with him. “He let them have all his grenades right in the face.” Both men talked in gasps, in an automatic nervous spasm. In fact, they both knew they were probably done for.
Wiener said nothing. He had recovered his silence, and lay prostrate against the bunker wall, which glittered with frost, while we looked at him. We had grown used to being saved by Wiener.
That evening, one of our men had tried to smoke a cigarette retrieved from a Russian cadaver. He had lit it and gone outside to relieve himself. Ivan had sharp eyes. He had spotted the glowing tip of the cigarette, and a 50-mm. shell had pierced the concrete, and burst in our comrade’s back. He died without a sound.
“Ivan has come even closer,” muttered Pferham.
The next day, in a piercing cold, we went to our outermost position, which should have been in Russian hands for some time past. On our way, we passed the last tank remaining in that sector. It was an old M-2, which had already been on fire, and which bore the impact marks of many shells. Its own guns had been destroyed and replaced by others which weren’t made for it. Each day it moved to a trench cut through the ruins of an alley, and held Ivan back whenever he tried to get through there.
The infantry in its neighborhood had often rescued that old machine from contests that were too unequal, while the soldier gutter — rats infesting the ruins nearby held it in respect for the inestimable services it still performed.
Today, the tank’s engine had broken down, and a team of ragged mechanics were laboring over it. We had huddled nearby to watch for a moment. One of the mechanics broke a tool and threw it on the ground in a rage. We heard the others talking. The machine was beyond repair. The men stood around, considering what to do with it. It had become a familiar part of our daily landscape.
Two planes had just flown over the ruins closest to us. All the tank crew took shelter beside the tank and stared up at the planes with feverish intensity. To our surprise, we found ourselves looking at two German reconnaissance planes. Where had they come from? They banked when they saw the tank, which no longer bore any insignia. For a moment we were all seized with a horrifying doubt: would the planes take us for Russians? We all stepped into the open and waved, with our arms spread wide, and the moment passed. The two planes flew over us very low, to the right. We could see the pilots. One of them even waved.
They must have come from a German base — from Germany, where everything was still possible, perhaps.
Our gray faces followed their flight until they vanished. In imagination we followed them for longer still.
We were still faced with the problem of the tank. The passage of the two planes had given us a fresh stimulus. Everyone was standing around the machine. Someone suggested that we try to push it. Although it was a mad idea, we all took hold of the rough and icy metal. Shouting hoarsely, we tried to establish a rhythm. There were about thirty of us, hoping to synchronize our efforts. Our boots slipped and crunched against the icy ground, but the tank didn’t move. Our emaciated bodies seemed to have lost their strength. The three crewmen swore at our impotence, but still the tank didn’t move. After a hurried discussion, two of our men ran to the rear. We were about to follow them, when we heard the sound of an engine. There was also a truck left in Memel, which I hadn’t known until that moment. However, it arrived, jolting and backfiring. Before it had quite reached the tank the men had pressed pieces of wood against its radiator to protect it from the shock. Then it nudged up to the tank, shoving it from the rear. For a moment we thought it was going to stall too. Then, with a series of shoves, we managed to start the tank rolling, lifting it from behind, and letting it fall several times.
I stared at one of the slowly turning rollers. Its motion struck me as the essence of the miracle of Memel in miniature. The truck’s engine roared, and our boots crunched against the solid ground. The tank rolled forward, and we continued on either side of it without losing our grip. My head was swimming from the effort, but I knew that something was happening in direct response to our will. Perhaps such knowledge is what constitutes joy. The heavy roller, studded with rivets, turned, and my eyes devoured it. It had also rolled across the infinity of the steppe, where part of my life had crumbled away, and it was turning now, just as I was still breathing. Joy is as simple as that. It would die, perhaps, within a short distance, as Hals or I might die, but until death came it would roll noisily down the slope. I felt very much akin to this huge metal object. In Memel, anything that moved was still alive. I was still alive….