The burial was a mundane affair, cloaked in a certain solemnity. The three fallen heroes were blessed by an army chaplain, whose cassock barely covered the uniform he normally wore. Delegations from the affected units led by sergeants had been drafted in. The Bavarian ASC men brought a wreath of beech twigs – a last greeting from the standby detachment at Chambrettes-Ferme, none of whom had been given leave to attend the funeral. The three coffins were placed on top of each other, and Bertin caught himself sighing with relief; little Kroysing was lowered in last and wouldn’t have to bear the burden of others even in death. As the other two dead men had been artillery drivers hit on their way to the ammunitions store, their comrades’ carabines fired a last salvo over the grave for all three. Then the funeral party hastily dispersed among Billy’s canteens to seize the rare opportunity to buy chocolate and jam, and raise a few glasses.
A hospital sergeant came up to Lieutenant Kroysing. The company had asked for his brother’s effects and had already collected them, and he gave him a list, which Kroysing glanced at absent-mindedly and put in his pocket. In the few seconds that this took, Bertin struggled with and made a decision. He walked briskly towards his friend’s brother and asked to have a word with him. Eberhard Kroysing gave him a rather scornful look. These poor ASC men exploited any contact with an officer to ask advice about their petty concerns or air a grievance. This one here, who was obviously an academic sort and a Jew, would no doubt want to pester him about leave or some such. ‘Fire away, man,’ he said, ‘but make it snappy or you’ll get separated from your comrades.’
‘I don’t belong to that unit,’ said Bertin carefully, ‘and I would like to speak to you alone for 10 minutes, Lieutenant. It’s about your brother,’ he added, seeing Kroysing’s dismissive expression.
Billy had been shot to pieces and patched up badly. They were both silent as they walked through the streets, both thinking about the freshly dug gave. ‘It was nice,’ said the lieutenant at length, ‘that you sent him the wreath.’
‘It came from his men at Chambrettes-Ferme, where he died. That’s where I got to know him – early in the morning the day before yesterday.’
‘You only knew my brother for such a short time and yet you came to his funeral? I really must thank your sergeant major.’
Bertin smiled weakly. ‘My orderly room refused me leave to come here. I came off my own bat.’
‘That’s a strange state of affairs,’ said Kroysing, as they went through the door of the officers’ mess, a kind of inn for officers with soldiers serving.
Several gentlemen in shiny epaulettes looked over in surprise as the sapper lieutenant and ASC private squeezed in opposite each other at the table for two in the window alcove. Such fraternisation between officers and men was undesirable, forbidden in fact. But the poor bastards in the trenches didn’t always behave in line with orders from the administration behind the lines. At any rate, the tall lieutenant with the Iron Cross, first class didn’t look like he would appreciate a lecture.
Indeed no. From Bertin’s first words, Eberhard Kroysing’s face looked rather set. Bertin asked if he had known that his brother had problems at his company. Certainly, said Kroysing, but when you were stuck in the sapper depot at Douaumont, under daily fire from the French, you weren’t overly interested in minor squabbles among NCOs at another company. The wine here was excellent. Bertin thought so too. He drank and asked if it had occurred to Lieutenant Kroysing that there could be a connection between those squabbles and Christoph Kroysing’s death. At that, the lieutenant’s eyes widened. ‘Listen,’ he said in a low voice, ‘men fall here every day like chestnuts from a tree. Imagine if everyone tried to find connections…!’
‘In connection with this case, might I explain how I got to know your brother and what he told me in confidence?’
Eberhard Kroysing looked into his wine glass, twirling it lightly between his fingers, while Bertin uttered one considered phrase after another, his eyes on Kroysing’s face. Bertin’s chest pressed against the marble table, which was a little too high for the low seats. He sensed that the young man opposite wasn’t convinced, but he couldn’t stay quiet. The main part of the room echoed with the booming laughter of boozers.
‘To be blunt,’ said Kroysing eventually, ‘I don’t believe a word you’ve said, sir. Not that I think you’re lying. But Christoph was an unreliable witness. He had an over-active imagination. He was a lyrical soul, you know, a poet.’
‘A poet?’ repeated Bertin, taken aback.
‘So to speak,’ confirmed Kroysing. ‘He wrote verse, pretty verse, and he was working on a play, a drama, he called it, a tragedy — what do I know? Such people quickly become obsessed by inconsequential things. Prejudices. Suspicions. But I, my dear chap, am a man of fact. My subject was engineering, and that precludes such fantasies.’
Bertin scrutinised his companion. He found it perplexing that Kroysing was so sceptical about someone whose personality and tone Bertin had immediately found convincing.
‘I don’t mean,’ continued Kroysing, ‘that my little brother was an idiot or a blabbermouth. But you men in the rank and file are prone to persecution complexes. You fancy everyone is bad and wants to make things difficult for you. You’d have to come up with some proof, young man.’
Bertin considered. ‘Would a letter from your brother count as proof, Lieutenant? A letter that my wife was supposed to send to your mother? A letter in which the case is set out, so that your uncle in Metz may finally intervene?’
Eberhard Kroysing looked up, fixing his hard eyes on Bertin. ‘And what is my Uncle Franz’s involvement to be in this matter about which you’re so well informed?’
‘Set the wheels in motion for a court martial and cite Christoph at the hearing.’
‘And how long was the boy in the cellar at Chambrettes-Ferme?’
‘Over two months with no break and no let-up.’
Eberhard Kroysing drummed his fingers on the table. ‘Give me the letter,’ he said.
‘It’s in my haversack,’ said Bertin. ‘I couldn’t know that I’d meet you here, Lieutenant.’
Eberhard Kroysing smiled grimly. ‘You were right to doubt it. The news came to me indirectly from our battalion headquarters, and if the Frogs hadn’t been unusually quiet, I might have missed my connection. But either way, I must have the letter.’
Bertin hesitated. ‘There’s something I must tell you. The letter was in his pocket when he was hit. It’s soaked in blood and unreadable.’
‘His blood,’ said Eberhard Kroysing. ‘So there’s still something left of him above ground. But that doesn’t matter. There are simple chemical processes that can deal with that. My sergeant Süßmann can do them in his sleep. It would seem,’ he said, and his brow darkened, ‘that I didn’t look after the little one as well as I should have done. Damn it,’ he shouted, suddenly angry, ‘I had other concerns. I thought the court martial had given its opinion long ago and put everything in order. The idea that brothers look out for each other is just a fairytale. Often they fight and hate each other. Or have you had a different experience?’