I was absolutely stunned, and stood staring at the cops. The shock of disappointment was so great that for a few moments I felt numb.
“We can understand that you are upset,” one of them said, officially taking note of my condition. “You will be well taken care of at the reception center here in town.”
Without a word, I took my pass from the counter, where the cop had put it down when he got tired of holding it out to me, and walked through the door. My throat felt as if it would burst from the effort of holding back my tears.
In the street, where the sun continued to shine, I stumbled on in a daze. I could see that people were staring at me as if I were drunk. Suddenly I felt ashamed, and looked for someplace where I could withdraw for a few minutes to compose myself. A little farther on, I took shelter in the ruins of a large building, collapsing onto a stone in the darkest corner I could find. Clutching my stamp-covered document, I burst into tears like a child. The sound of footsteps made me look up. Someone had followed me into the building, thinking, perhaps, that I was a thief. When he saw that I was only crying, he turned back to the street. Luckily, people cared more about ration cards than about tears in those days, so at least I was allowed to remain alone with my sorrow.
That evening, I caught a train back to Berlin, letting Fate dictate that I should call on the Neubachs after all. I didn’t know where any of my German relatives lived — although at that time they were quite near Berlin — so I was reduced to either the reception center or the Neubachs’. I felt obsessed by my disappointment: I had been looking forward to this leave so much! And I had earned it, too: I had joined the infantry expressly to get it. And now, here I was with nothing but a ludicrous scrap of paper. I didn’t even have my gift package any more: it had vanished at Magdeburg, which I had left with a box of some soldier’s dirty laundry. Now I would have to show up with empty hands at the house of people I had never met. I certainly didn’t have enough money to buy them anything.
That evening, I counted myself lucky to get a bed at the reception center in Berlin. One of the older soldiers there listened to the story of my pass, and advised me to speak to a noncom at the registration desk. The noncom turned out to be quite sympathetic, noted down all the details, and told me to come back in twenty-four hours.
Early the next morning, I set out to find the Neubachs’ house. After several hours of hesitant, groping progress, I finally found myself in front of number 112, Killeringstrasse, a simple, three-story house with a graveled walk beside it, which could be shut off from the street by a low gate. A young girl who seemed to be about my age was leaning on the bottom half of the front door, looking out into the street. After a moment’s hesitation, I went over to ask a final direction.
“Yes sir,” she said, smiling. “This is the right house: they live on the second floor. But at this time of day they’re all out at work.”
“Thank you, miss. Do you know when they’ll be back?”
“They’ll be here this evening, after seven.”
“Thank you,” I said, thinking of the long day ahead of me. What could I do with all that time? As I shut the gate, I thanked the girl once again. She smiled faintly, and nodded her head. Who was she waiting for? Certainly not the Neubachs.
I had already walked a short way down Killeringstrasse when it occurred to me that I could, at any rate, have talked to the girl a little longer. After several moments of hesitation, I turned back, hoping that she would still be there. Every minute I could subtract from the interminable day ahead seemed like a minute gained. As long as she didn’t laugh at me right to my face, I was ready to take almost any amount of sarcasm. I was soon back at number 112. She was exactly where I’d left her.
“You think they’re already home?” she said, laughing.
“Of course not. But I feel so lost in this town that I’d rather sit here on the steps and wait than have to hunt for the house all over again.”
“You want to wait here all day?” She seemed astonished.
“I’m afraid so.”
“But you ought to look around Berlin. It’s an interesting place.”
“I agree with you. I should. But really, I feel so lost I’m afraid I wouldn’t see anything.”
And I still felt so disappointed that I had no wish to flirt. “Are you on leave?”
“Yes. I’ve still got twelve days. But I’m not allowed to leave the Berlin sector.”
“Are you from the Eastern front?”
“Yes.”
“It must have been very hard. I can see it on your face.”
I glanced up at her in surprise. I suspected that I did look like the undertaker’s assistant, but for a pretty girl to remark on it after the first few minutes!
Then she said something about the people on the third floor, but I wasn’t really listening. If she thought I looked as bad as all that, this minuscule conversation that was bringing me somewhat closer to normal life might end at any moment. The idea terrified me. I would have done almost anything to keep this encounter going.
I tried to change my expression, to force my mouth to smile, to make myself agreeable. Heavily and clumsily I asked her if she knew the city.
“Oh yes,” she said, apparently unaware of the trap I was arranging.
“I’ve lived in Berlin since before the war.”
Then she told me about herself: how she studied for part of the day and was a first-aid assistant for an eight-hour shift. She was studying for a teacher’s license. I listened, but with only half my attention. The simple sound of her voice seemed to wrap me in tenderness; I only wanted it to continue. I tried to look agreeable. When she fell silent, I thrust home with my question: the technique of a feldwebel.
“Since you don’t have to be at the first — aid station until five, couldn’t you show me some of the sights? That is to say, if you don’t have anything else to do…”
She blushed a little.
“I’d like to,” she said, looking down at the ground. “But I can’t say until I’ve spoken to Frau X….” (I no longer remember the woman’s name.)
“Oh. Well, I’ve got lots of time…. Twelve days…” She laughed. “Good sign,” I thought.
We talked for about an hour, until the good lady arrived. We couldn’t avoid the war, of course — although I certainly wanted to but I did my best to embroider what I said. I described heroic deeds the like of which I’d never seen. I couldn’t believe that the filth of the steppe was what this girl wanted to hear about, and I was afraid of speaking too frankly. I didn’t want her to understand what our experiences had really been like. I didn’t want her to catch the stench of mud and blood through anything I said, or to see the huge gray horizon still stamped across my vision. I was afraid of infecting her with my terror and disgust, and afraid that if I did she’d resent it. My descriptions of heroism came straight from Hollywood, but at least we were able to laugh, and I could go on talking to her.
Finally, Frau X arrived. At first, she looked at us disapprovingly. Then Paula — she had told me her name — introduced me as a friend of the Neubachs.
“To tell you the truth, gnadige Frau, I was a friend of Ernst’s. I wanted to visit his family.”
“I understand, young man. Come in and wait in my place — you’ll be more comfortable there. Those poor Neubachs. Their courage is almost unbelievable. To think of losing two sons in ten days: it’s too awful! My God, I hope this war ends before one of mine is killed!”
So the Neubachs already knew…. They knew not only that Ernst was dead, but another son as well. I hadn’t even known that Ernst had a brother. Suddenly, Ernst’s death came back to me in all its detaiclass="underline" Ernst, the Don, the Tatra… “Ernst, I’ll save you! Don’t cry, Ernst!” These things were blotted out only when I looked at Paula; and they had to be blotted out; I had to forget them. Paula was beside me, smiling… to forget: how hard it was!