The Cross of Iron (59 page)

‘Can you guess what I am thinking?’ Brandt asked softly.

When Kiesel said nothing, he turned and slowly approached his adjutant. ‘I am thinking of what would have happened to März if I had accepted your recommendation and transferred Steiner. I can’t help thinking of that now.’

‘I have already thought of that,’ Kiesel said.

Brandt looked down at him. ‘Do you still remember what you said about providence?’

Kiesel nodded silently. For a while Brandt stood motionless, looking over his head into a corner of the room. Then he returned to his chair and sat with head bowed.

Kiesel looked over at the tall windows. The ruins of the city towered into a fiery sky. The light of the setting sun flooded in through the window panes, casting bars of brightness on the intricate pattern of the rug. He watched as the sunlight neared the wall, flowing over the white-painted wood of the baseboard and almost imperceptibly crawling up the wallpaper. On an antique chest stood a plaster bust of Lenin staring pop-eyed at the leggy china-closet on the opposite wall, in which a delicate Biedermeier tea service was arrayed. Rendezvous of the centuries, Kiesel thought, feeling an odd sense of grief. The commander picked up a sheet of paper and raised his head. ‘Captain Morlock was here.’ 

Kiesel raised his eyebrows expectantly. Captain Morlock was Chief Operations Officer of Division. He seldom came down to the regiment; when he did, it was always on something of special importance. Controlling his curiosity, Kiesel waited. He watched Brandt consult the sheet of paper again. Finally he thrust it into a drawer which he carefully locked. ‘Top secret, for commanders only,’ he said tersely.

Kiesel regarded him with bright, intelligent eyes. Then he said: ‘We’re evacuating.’ It was not a question, but a statement.

‘How do you know?’ Brandt asked.

‘A guess. It’s been in the air a long time.’

Brandt nodded wearily. ‘The day is still secret.’

‘And why are we attacking?’ Kiesel asked.

‘Camouflage tactics. As long as we keep on attacking the Russians won’t expect us to evacuate the bridgehead. It has to be done, senseless as it seems.’

‘When do you think we’ll go?’

‘Today, tomorrow, the day after.’ Brandt shrugged. ‘We’re waiting for the cue. The evacuation has been prepared down to the last detail. What bothers the big brass is the unexpected invasion of the Russians in Novorosisk. They think it important for that to be cleaned up first.’

‘We’re too weak,’ Kiesel said.

Brandt, who had been pacing the room, paused in front of an engraving in a gilded frame on the wall. He stood studying the print for a moment. Then he turned toward Kiesel again. ‘Morlock holds the same opinion. But we dare not leave anything untried. There’s too much at stake. According to information reaching Division, the Russians have been concentrating their strength for months. It’s going to be a race with time, and everything depends upon whether we can carry out the step-by-step evacuation as planned. Novorosisk is the first monkey-wrench in the machinery.’ He went to the table and leaned over the map. ‘Vogel has reached the waterfront. Körner is still fighting around the centre. Stransky is stuck in front of the factory, while his first and third companies are brawling with the Russians somewhere and sending alarming radio messages. My picture of it is beginning to be quite a mess.’

Kiesel stood up and looked over his shoulder at the map. ‘What is Stransky going to do?’

‘I’ve ordered him to occupy the factory after dark. Triebig will lead the second company’s attack. Let’s hope they have more success than they did this morning. As long as the Russians hold the factory they’ll be able to keep their little bridgehead on this side. There seem to be four or five warships in the harbour.’ ‘Hopeless,’ Kiesel murmured. He asked a few more questions, which Brandt answered laconically. After a while they sat down at the table again and discussed the situations of the other battalions.

‘Körner worries me most,’ Brandt remarked, rubbing his chin. ‘He hasn’t advanced a yard and on both sides has exposed flanks which...’ He was interrupted by the urgent shrilling of the telephone. ‘That may be Körner now,’ he said eagerly, answering. Then he frowned and looked up. ‘It’s from Vogel. What.. He fell silent and listened intently. Kiesel saw his features stiffen. He laid back the receiver and spoke dully: ‘Vogel is dead.’

‘Dead?’ Kiesel changed colour.

‘They caught the battalion staff,’ Brandt said. ‘Suddenly broke in from the back of the house. Nobody knows where they came from.’ He leaned forward, probing Kiesel’s pale face. ‘What are we going to do when we lose the war?’

The question was such a bolt from the blue that Kiesel started. He shrugged wearily. ‘Start life all over again,’ he said softly.

A dark frown passed over the commander’s face. ‘You may, but not I. I’m too old to start life all over again.’ His big head drooped. ‘It’s no longer worth it.’

‘There are ways,’ Kiesel murmured without conviction. 

‘Certainly.’ Brandt nodded absently. ‘Certainly there are ways. Being a salesman, for example. Going from house to house and door to door. Can you imagine it?’

Kiesel did not reply. Several painful minutes passed, until Brandt laughed harshly. His whole body stiffened. ‘Perhaps we are thinking further ahead than is really necessary. There are other solutions. A hero’s grave, for example, or Siberia, or the National Committee. What do you think about that?’

Kiesel saw mingled rage and anguish in his face, and something of the commander’s hopelessness affected him. ‘I would prefer the first,’ he answered.

‘That surprises me,’ Brandt replied loudly. ‘I would have thought the last.’

Kiesel felt that he was looking for a quarrel, and shook his head. ‘You misunderstand me. That would be an escape into self-deception, and in the long run you can’t go on deceiving yourself.’ ‘What about your ideology?’ Brandt asked scornfully.

Kiesel looked down at his cigarette and remained silent. When the commander drummed his fingers impatiently on the table, he raised his head. His voice was cold as he spoke: ‘I’ll put it this way: in principle I can’t enjoy a full dinner when others sitting beside me are hungry, especially when they wear the same uniform and have sworn the same oath as I have.’

‘I’m glad to hear that,’ Brandt said. His face relaxed. ‘There is no excuse for the Committee,’ he said harshly. ‘They call upon our men to desert, although they know perfectly well what is awaiting them on the other side. Filthy scoundrels.’ He fell silent and began kneading the skin above his cheekbones.

To divert his thoughts, Kiesel spoke of Steiner. ‘I’d like to find out his home address. März asked me for it.’

‘Fetscher will have it,’ Brandt growled. ‘Staff Sergeant Fetscher.’ He was scarcely paying attention, and quickly turned the conversation back to personal matters. ‘I’ve never thought about that before,’ he went on. ‘But for several weeks now it’s been weighing on me. I really don’t any longer see what I’d do with myself if I should take off this uniform today.’

‘You’re still a fine figure of a man,’ Kiesel said cautiously. 

Brandt laughed twistedly. ‘You mean I might marry again? Are you mad? I was forty when my wife died. Twelve years have passed since then, and I’ve become an inveterate bachelor. Don’t bring that up.’ He lit a cigarette and tossed the match to the floor, where it went on glowing and burned a hole in the rug. They watched it without moving. Their eyes met, and Brandt laughed bitterly. He pointed to the ugly black spot in the vivid design of the rug and said: ‘If I were a married man, I wouldn’t do that sort of thing. But I’m too old to adjust to domesticity. Too old and full of idiosyncrasies.’

‘You would have to find the right woman,’ Kiesel replied. 

‘That happens only once. You know that as well as I. Why haven’t you ever married?’

It was a challenge that struck Kiesel to the quick. He bristled as he said: ‘Don’t you know?’

‘Yes, I do know. There’s more talk about you than you have any notion of. The division is full of gossip about it. If what they say is true, you were studying for the ministry until you got mixed up with some girl, who later threw you over. Is that so?’

‘They are well informed,’ Kiesel replied coldly.

‘You should expect that,’ Brandt said. ‘You may think me tactless for saying it to you so bluntly. But I’m not one for this damn beating around the bush. When I talk with somebody, I want him to know where he stands. You’ve escaped into the uniform just as I did, and now that we are probably on the point of losing our uniforms, we’re right back where we once were. And I tell you frankly, I don’t look forward to it.’

Kiesel regarded him expressionlessly. ‘You can shoot yourself,’ he said brutally.

He saw the commander’s eyes widen for a moment. But his voice was perfectly tranquil as he replied: ‘The thought is not new. Perhaps I shall some day take it up.’

There was something in his face which Kiesel had never seen before, and which aroused his concern. ‘You mean that?’

‘What do you think?’

‘That’s no solution,’ Kiesel said harshly.

Brandt shrugged. ‘It’s no better or worse than the others. It’s just—shall I say, more final.’

‘At first sight,’ Kiesel said.

Brandt waved that aside.

‘At last sight, which is what gives the idea its peculiar appeal.’ He leaned forward across the table. ‘Listen to me carefully, Kiesel,’ he said in a controlled voice. ‘You have your philosophy and I have mine. Of late I have had occasion to note that we have a great deal in common. But the point on which we fundamentally differ—you know as well as 1. 1 may envy you for your illusions, but I cannot take them seriously.’

The patch of sunlight on the rug had meanwhile travelled to the ceiling where it clung to a corner, shrinking and fading. Kiesel sat rigidly in his chair. His eyes under half-shut lids were fiercely alert as he asked: ‘What do you mean by illusions?’

Brandt nodded as though primed for the question. ‘For heaven’s sake, don’t start splitting hairs with me. I had illusions, too, Kiesel, but they possessed form and substance. I had my eye on one thing and another, until finally I picked the uniform. That was the greatest folly of my life, not that you could have told me so at the time. It was not that I had no other opportunities. There was a family business—you understand—but it wasn’t enough for me. I had ambition, wanted to make a career. Well, did I succeed or not?’ He laughed stridently. ‘Didn’t make it to general, as I had hoped, but still regimental commander isn’t bad. There hasn’t been time to go any further.’ He fell silent, rose quickly and went over to the window where he stood with averted face, gazing out over the roofs.

‘You can regard it as an episode,’ Kiesel said quietly.

Brandt shook his head emphatically. ‘That sort of thing is not an episode. It’s what I have to show for my life. The top step, where I intended to rest, and I have spent fifty-two years reaching it.’ He turned around, propping his arms on the window-sill. His face seemed shattered, but he was smiling. ‘Fifty-two years. I don’t know anybody who started at the beginning again at the age of fifty-two. Not when all bridges were burned behind him.’ ‘There are examples...’ Kiesel began.

The commander cut him off. ‘Don’t give me any of that. Public welfare case or monk or something. I’m not the type. I’m sick of it all, damn sick of it.’ At that moment the telephone rang. He went to the table and picked up the receiver. His body stiffened. ‘Herr General!’

The four of them sat around the table in silence. Schnurrbart was holding a worn letter-case in his hands, turning aimlessly through a number of papers. The only window in the room was shielded by a ground-sheet so that no light would fall into the street. The flickering candle cast leaping shadows on the walls of the room. Now and then a machine-gun chattered. 

Schnurrbart lifted his head. ‘What’ll we do with this stuff?’ 

‘You can give it to Fetscher,’ Steiner replied. He sat with feet on the table, smoking. Now he held out his hand. ‘Let me see.’ As Schnurrbart handed the letter-case to him, a picture fell out. Krüger leaned forward with interest. ‘Who’s it of?’

‘A girl,’ Steiner said, holding the picture up to the candle and studying a merry face with tight curls framing a clear forehead and crinkles of laughter around the mouth. ‘Nice bit,’ Krüger murmured. ‘I wonder what she’ll do when she gets the news.’ 

‘What’s there for her to do,’ Schnurrbart replied grumpily. ‘She’ll buy herself a nice-looking black dress, and by two weeks she’ll have forgotten him.’

Faber shook his head in reproof. ‘That’s no way to talk. You don’t know how they feel about it.’

Steiner had turned the picture over. He read the words written in a rather childish handwriting on the back. ‘For my dear Kurt. Monika.’ Curious that his name was Kurt, Steiner thought. ‘Did any of you know his first name was Kurt?’ he asked.

‘Who?’ Krüger asked.

‘Maag, of course. I don’t think I ever heard his first name.’ ‘Neither did I,’ Schnurrbart said. ‘Was it?’

‘Here it stands,’ Steiner said.

Krüger plucked at his nose. ‘He never said a word about it. Monika. Interesting name. Reminds me of somebody.’

Steiner replaced the picture in the letter-case and turned to Faber. ‘Have you Kern’s things?’

‘No. They’ve already taken him away. He must be over at 1st Company. When I went, Maag was the only one lying there.’ 

‘Rotten business!’ Schnurrbart shook himself. ‘You know what surprises me?’ They looked up questioningly at him. ‘That they gave the job to the 1st platoon instead of us.’ He turned to Steiner. ‘You must be in good with Triebig.’

Steiner frowned. ‘That
is
funny. I’ll bet there’s something behind it.’

‘I’ve got that feeling too,’ Krüger said. ‘It’s a suicide job, picking up the wounded and dead. The Ivans keep kicking up the dust with their MG’s in the yard.’

‘At any rate the attack has been called off,’ Schnurrbart said. 

‘How come?’ Krüger asked, pausing in his vigorous scratching of his head.

‘It’s obvious,’ Schnurrbart said. ‘If we were going to attack again, we wouldn’t have to fetch the dead because we could do that a lot better once we were in the factory.’