By the end of October they were still holding the front on the borders of East Prussia. News from the west was scanty and filled with phrases from the minister of propaganda, such as fanatical promises of secret weapons to be unleashed on the allies.
Gus farted at this news. "Secret weapons, my ass; they can't even produce the old ones. I ain't seen a German fighter in the air for weeks. What the hell happened to them all?"
Teacher merely shook his head, "It's all just about over, I don't know why they don't just finish us off now, what the hell do we have left to fight with?"
Langer lit a smoke from a pack of Russian cigarets that he had taken off a body; they tasted dry and acrid in his mouth. "They aren't going to finish us off for a while, not with winter coming on and before that the rains slowing things down a bit before their supply lines can catch up to them. I'd guess it would be spring before the big push comes; they have time on their side. Step by step they push us back and shorten the lines a little. They're finally forcing us to do what should have been done years ago and concentrate our forces where we could get the most strength from them, not stretch them out all over the whole of Russia." Exhaling, he smelled the air. "No, it will go on a while longer."
The earth shook under them as a salvage of heavy Russian artillery ranged about them; the big guns were being brought up. The more familiar sounds of the 76 mm was superseded by the heavier crump of guns up to 210 mm firing a shell that weighed 297 pounds. One of these crater makers hit less than forty feet away, blowing Gus clear out of his foxhole, landing him fifteen feet away, ears ringing and deaf. Langer raced out, grabbed him and dragged him back into a hole. For the next week Gus said he heard the bells of the cathedrals in Cologne, playing the "Horst Wessel Lied."
Gus finally disappeared in the middle of October while out scrounging for food; he just walked off to the rear of a village he was visiting between Suwalki and Johannesburg. He had heard that there was a supply depot there holding rations which they had received no orders to distribute. The Russians had picked that time to blast the village from the face of the earth with a barrage from their big guns, combined with an air strike of twin-engine bombers. The last Langer had seen of him was his waddling walk; he had picked up a new style of walking to compensate for the loss of his toes. It made him change the pressure of his step and gave him a gait that looked as if he was about to lose his balance and fall over on his already pushed-in face.
Langer and Teacher searched the rubble of the village and found only the dead. Supplies not destroyed were spread out over three miles and already the scavengers, soldiers and civilians, were fighting over tins of burned food. Of Gus, they assumed that he had finally gone to meet the great quartermaster in the sky, where the clouds rained vodka and the women were always young and pretty. The two made their way alone, stopping to stay awhile with one group, then another, until they were rounded up by some field police in Allenstein along with others and formed into a new group and assigned orders to return to the front. They would have to make their way on foot, there was no transportation available, but from this day on, anyone without written orders would be shot or hung on sight. They shrugged; what difference did it make, now or later? At least it gave them something to do, rather than just wait.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
From the occupied and allied countries they came in the thousands; men, women and children. Transport that should have been used for the Wehrmacht was assigned to the Deathshead Einsatzgrüppen. Instead of men and munitions, human cargo. Langer and Teacher moved through the yards. Nausea filled them, their mouths tasting the bitter taste of vomit, barely held back. Truncheons were in widespread use as were pistols. The Germans were retreating, but they were making sure that they took with them all the human misery that they could. The final solution must be carried out. Jews, in their faces a strange mixture of fear and resignation, knowing where they were going, but not wanting to believe the unimaginable. By the hundreds they were pushed and packed into cattle cars until there was no room to stand. Mothers held their babies over their heads so they could breathe, but before the trains could unload, over half the people in each car would die of suffocation, or simply be crushed to death when they fell. SS guards, aided by enthusiastic Ukrainian police, went about their task in a businesslike manner, their faces devoid of any semblance of compassion or mercy; these were beasts who relished their work.
Sweat ran freely down Teacher's face, his eyes wide in their sunken sockets, skin waxy, pale, his hands trembling. The Schmeisser swung from its shoulder strap, bumping his leg with each step. "Carl," he half whispered hoarsely, his throat dry, "is this what we've become? "
A child cried, then silence. They passed a group of laughing SS and their Ukrainian counterparts standing in a huddle.
Teacher paused. "Carl, go on, I have something to do and I know you can't help me. Go on, you'll find your destiny later alone, as you always have."
Langer stopped, face grim; the beginning look of killing gathered at the corners of his eyes. Teacher gave a gentle shove with his hand.
"No, Carl, this is the way I want it. You told me once that life is a great circle with no beginning or end. Well, my circle has turned long enough. It's time for me to make a new beginning. Please go on, get away from me, now is not the time for you, it's mine and if you don't go I can't do it."
Langer sighed deeply, put his arms around the shoulders of the thin, sad-faced man and hugged him farewell. Silent, he walked away, not looking back. He passed between a couple of cars and their cargos of pain out of sight.
* * *
Teacher unslung his submachine gun, pulled the cocking lever back slowly. His back straightened, he held the gun to his hip, barrel straight ahead. He moved to where the SS and their toadies were enjoying themselves. Stopping at about fifteen meters, he called out, voice crackling, "Kamaraden."
The heads turned, curious at first at the intrusion. Then they saw the weapon pointed at them. "Heil Hitler, Kamaraden." The Schmeisser spoke its rapid, flat, cracking chatter; the bullets smashed into the packed group, dropping them to the earth to twitch and die, wondering at their pain. They weren't supposed to be hurt, they were the ones who gave pain, not received it. Teacher emptied the magazine on full auto, spraying the twitching bodies until they were still.
He dropped the weapon to the dirt, reached into his coat pocket, took out a grenade, knelt down and pulled the pin, holding the lever tight, tears running down his face into his beard. He raised his eyes to the gray skies. "God," he cried, "forgive me, God, that I didn't do this sooner."
Two SS Sturmmen seeing him on his knees from the back, with his gun lying beside him, rushed to throw themselves on this traitor; they reached him seconds after he released the hammer; they grabbed him in time to participate in the dull thud of the grenade's explosion, and died with him. Teacher crumpled over on his back, stomach almost completely ripped out, eyes wide; but for the first time in years his face was calm; he found his way to end the pain.