34
It got warmer towards evening and a fresh snowfall covered the soot and dirt of the war. Bach was doing the rounds of the front-line fortifications. The white snow of Christmas glittered in the flashes of gunfire, turning pink or green in the light of the signal-flares.
The stone ridges, the caves, the mounds of brick, the fresh hare-tracks that covered the ground where people ate, relieved themselves, went in search of shells and cartridges, carried away their wounded, buried their dead – all this looked very strange in the brief flashes of light. And at the same time it looked all too familiar.
Bach reached a spot that was covered by the Russian guns installed in the ruins of a three-storey building. He could hear the sound of a harmonica and their slow, wailing singing. Through a gap in the wall he could see the Soviet front line, the silhouettes of factories and the frozen Volga.
Bach called out to the sentry, but his answer was drowned by a sudden explosion followed by the drumming of clods of frozen earth against the wall. A low-flying Russian plane, its engine cut out, had just dropped a bomb.
'Another lame Russian crow,' said the sentry, pointing up at the dark winter sky.
Bach squatted down, leaning his elbows on the familiar stone ledge, and looked round. A faint pink shadow trembled against the high wall – the Russians had lit their stove and the chimney was now white-hot. It seemed they had nothing to do all day except eat, eat, eat and slurp down huge mouthfuls of hot coffee.
Further to the right, where the Russian and German trenches were closest together, he could hear the quiet, unhurried sound of metal striking frozen earth.
Very slowly, without ever coming up to the surface, the Russians were bringing their trench forward. This slow movement through the frozen, stony earth bore witness to a fierce, obtuse passion; it was as though the earth itself were advancing.
That afternoon Sergeant Eisenaug had reported that a grenade from a Russian trench had smashed the chimney pipe of the company stove and filled the dug-out with dirt. Later on a Russian soldier wearing a white sheepskin and a new fur hat had leapt out from his trench, cursing and shaking his fist.
Realizing instinctively that this was a spontaneous act, none of the Germans had opened fire.
'Hey! Chicken, eggs, Russian glug-glug?' the soldier had shouted. A German had then jumped up and, in a quiet voice that wouldn't be heard in the officers' trench, called out:
'Hey! Russian! Don't shoot! Must see Mother again. You have my tommy-gun, I have your hat.'
The reply from the Russian trench had been curt and monosyllabic. Its sense had been unmistakeable and had enraged the Germans.
Still later a hand-grenade had exploded in the communication trench. But no one had been bothered by this.
All this had been reported by Sergeant Eisenaug. Bach had said: 'Let them shout if that's what they want. As long as no one deserts…'
Eisenaug, his breath stinking of raw beetroot, had gone on to report that Private Petenkoffer had somehow managed to do a deal with the enemy: some Russian bread and lump sugar had been found in his knapsack. He had promised to exchange a friend's razor for a chunk of fat bacon and two packets of buckwheat. For this he had demanded a commission of 150 grams of fat bacon.
'That's simple enough,' Bach had replied. 'Order him to report to me at once!'
It had then emerged that Petenkoffer had been killed that morning while carrying out a dangerous mission.
'What do you expect me to do about it?' Bach had said in exasperation. 'In any case, Russians and Germans have always been trading partners.'
Eisenaug, however, had been in no mood for pleasantries. He had been wounded in France in May 1940 and his wound still hadn't healed. He had then served in a police battalion in South Germany. He had been flown to Stalingrad only two months before. Hungry, frozen, eaten up by lice and by fear, he had lost whatever sense of humour he might once have had.
It was over there, where he could just make out the lacework of ruined buildings, that Bach had begun his life in Stalingrad. The black September sky and its huge stars, the turbid waves of the Volga, the huge walls that were still hot from the fire – and then the steppes of the South-East, the frontier of Asia…
The buildings to the west were buried in darkness. He could only make out the outlines of a few snow-covered ruins.
Why had he written that letter to his mother from hospital? She'd almost certainly have shown it to Hubert. Why had he had those conversations with Lenard?
Why do people have memories? It would be easier to die-anything to stop remembering. How could he have taken that moment of drunken folly for the deepest truth of his life? Why had he finally given in after holding back for all those long, difficult years?
He had never killed a child; he had never arrested anyone. But he had broken the fragile dyke that had protected the purity of his soul from the seething darkness around him. The blood of the camps and ghettos had gushed over him and carried him away… There was no longer any divide between him and the darkness; he himself was a part of the darkness.
What had happened to him? Was it folly, chance? Or was it the deepest law of his soul?
35
It was warm inside the bunker. A few of the soldiers were asleep, their bare yellow feet sticking out from under the overcoats they had pulled up over their heads; the rest were sprawled on the floor.
'Do you remember?' asked one particularly thin soldier, pulling his shirt across his chest and examining the seam with the fierce look characteristic of soldiers the world over as they inspect their shirts and underclothes. 'Do you remember that wonderful cellar where we were quartered in September?'
A second soldier, lying on his back, said: 'You were already here when I joined you.'
'That was a splendid cellar,' several other voices confirmed. 'You can take our word for it. It was a real home, with proper beds…'
'Some of the fellows were beginning to despair when we were outside Moscow. And look what happened: we reached the Volga!'
Another soldier split a board with his bayonet and opened the door of the stove to throw in a few bits of wood. The flames lit up his large, grey, unshaven face, turning it a reddish copper.
'And a lot of good that's done us!' he said. 'We've swapped a hole near Moscow for an even worse hole near the Volga.'
A gay voice rang out from the dark corner where the soldiers' packs were piled. 'Horsemeat! You couldn't think of a better Christmas dinner if you tried!'
The talk turned to food and everyone grew more animated. First they discussed the best way of getting rid of the smell of sweat in boiled horsemeat. Some said you just needed to scoop the black scum off the top of the boiling water. Others said it was important to simmer the broth very gently; still others said you should only use the meat from the hind-quarters and put it straight into the boiling water while it was still frozen.
'It's the scouts who really have a good time of it,' said one young soldier. 'They steal provisions from the Russians and then share them with their women in the cellars. And people wonder why the scouts always get off with the youngest and prettiest ones!'
'That's one thing I no longer think about,' said the soldier stoking the stove. 'I don't know whether it's just my mood, or not having anything to eat. But what I would like is to see my children before I die. Just for one hour!'
'The officers think about it, though. I met the lieutenant himself in one of their cellars. He was quite at home, almost one of the family.'
'What were you doing there?'
'I'd gone to get my washing done.'