He read the Gothic script on the door-plates: '2nd Section', 'ADCs' Office', 'General Koch', 'Major Traurig'. He heard voices and the clatter of typewriters. All this brought home to him the strength of his filial, fraternal bond with his brothers-in-arms, his Party comrades, his colleagues in the SS. But it was twilight and their life was fading away.
He had no idea what Chalb wanted to talk about, whether or not he would wish to confide his personal anxieties. As was often the case with people who had been brought together by their work in the Party before the war, they paid little attention to their difference in rank and talked with comradely straightforwardness. Their meetings were usually a mixture of serious discussion and friendly chat.
Lenard had a gift for laying bare the essence of a complicated matter with the utmost concision. His words were sometimes relayed from one report to another right up to the most important offices in Berlin.
He entered Chalb's office. It took him a moment to recognize him. And he had to look hard at his still plump face before he realized that all that had changed was the look in his dark, intelligent eyes.
A map of Stalingrad hung on the wall. The 6th Army was encircled by a merciless band of flaming crimson.
'We're on an island, Lenard,' said Chalb, 'surrounded not by water, but by the hatred of brutes.'
They talked about the Russian frost, about Russian felt boots, about Russian bacon fat and the treacherous nature of Russian vodka – how it first warmed you up only to freeze you later.
Chalb asked if there had been any changes in the relations between officers and soldiers in the front line.
'When it comes down to it,' said Lenard, 'I can't really see much difference between the thoughts of a colonel and the thoughts of the privates. There's precious little optimism in either.'
'It's the same story at HQ,' said Chalb. He paused to give his words greater effect and then added: 'And the Commander-in-Chief's the worst of all.'
'Nevertheless,' said Lenard, 'there have been no deserters.'
'I've got a question for you,' said Chalb. 'It has a bearing on something very important. Hitler wants the 6th Army to stand firm, while Paulus, Weichs and Zeitzler are in favour of capitulating in order to save the lives of the soldiers and officers. My task is to make discreet soundings as to the possibility of disobedience on the part of the encircled troops.'
Aware of the gravity of this question, Lenard thought for a moment in silence. He then said he'd like to begin with a particular example and said a few words about a certain Lieutenant Bach.
'There's one rather doubtful character in Bach's company. He used to be a general laughing-stock, but now everyone's trying to get in with him… That made me start thinking about the company and its commanding officer. When things were going well, this Lieutenant Bach was wholeheartedly in agreement with the policies of the Party. But I've got a feeling he's begun to think differently. And I've been wondering what it is that draws the soldiers in his company to someone they used to look on as a cross between a clown and a madman. How would that character behave at a critical moment? What would he say to the other soldiers? How would their commanding officer react…? There are no easy answers to these questions. But there's one thing I can say: the soldiers won't mutiny.'
'Now we can see the wisdom of the Party more clearly than ever,' said Chalb. 'We never hesitated not only to cut out infected tissue from the body of the people, but also to cut out apparently healthy tissue that might become infected at a critical moment. Rebellious spirits and hostile ideologues were purged from the Army, from the Church, from the cities, from the villages. There may be any amount of grumbling and anonymous letters, but there will never be a rebellion – not even if the enemy encircles us in Berlin itself. For that we can thank Hitler. We should give thanks to heaven for sending us such a man at this time.'
He stopped for a moment and listened to the slow rumbling over their heads. In the deep cellar it was impossible to tell whether this was the German artillery or the explosion of Soviet bombs. After the rumbling had gradually subsided, Chalb said: 'It's quite unthinkable that you should merely be receiving the rations of an ordinary officer. I've entered you on a list of security officers and especially valued friends of the Party. You will receive regular parcels by courier at your divisional headquarters.'
'Thank you,' said Lenard. 'But I'd prefer to eat what everyone else does.'
Chalb spread his hands in helpless surprise.
'What about Manstein?' asked Lenard. 'I've heard he's received some new weapons.'
'I don't believe in Manstein,' said Chalb. 'On that subject I share the views of our commander-in-chief.'
In the hushed voice of a man who for years on end has dealt mainly with classified information, he went on:
'There's another list, also in my keeping, of security officers and valued friends who will be allowed a place on a plane in the event of a catastrophe. I've included your name. In the event of my absence, Colonel Osten will be in possession of the instructions.'
Noticing the questioning look in Lenard's eyes, he explained: 'I may have to fly to Germany – in connection with a matter too confidential to be entrusted either to paper or to a radio code.
'I can tell you one thing,' he said with a wink, 'I'll have a few stiff drinks before we take off. Not to celebrate, but because I'll be frightened. A very large number of our planes are being shot down.'
'Comrade Chalb,' said Lenard, 'I don't want a seat in the plane. I'd be ashamed to abandon men whom I myself have urged to fight to the bitter end.'
Chalb sat a little straighter in his chair. 'I have no right to attempt to dissuade you.'
Wanting to lighten the over-solemn atmosphere, Lenard asked: 'If it's possible, I'd be very grateful if you could help me return to my regiment. I've no car.'
'There's nothing I can do,' said Chalb. 'For the first time in my life I'm quite powerless. The petrol's in the hands of that dog Schmidt. I can't get a single litre out of him. Do you understand? I'm powerless.' His face had resumed the helpless expression that had made him unrecognizable when Lenard first came in. It was quite unlike him. Or did it perhaps reveal his true self?
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.