Unlikely Warrior (17 page)

Another fellow is lying on a bench, sleeping off his drunk, while a little farther away someone else is just drinking himself into the same state. He keeps filling up his glass from the watering can we use to bring the wine in from the barrel. A child is crying continuously near the stove. This scene being displayed in front of us probably offends him just as much as it does me!

Over in the corner a self-assured Don Juan is flirting with the pert little tenant from house number two. He is just in the act of crossing over from spiritual tenderness to that of a more active variety. In another corner two sedate family men from Baden-Baden are talking about their wives and children and also tipping their glasses regularly. Our youngest is sitting in front of the fire eating scrambled eggs (not less than eleven) from a large frying pan. Now and then he guzzles some of his hot wine. Just now the two whistlers, the louse crusher and the photo viewer, have fallen into such a persistent dissonance that they have suddenly become embarrassed and fallen silent.

Someone just came in and announced loudly, “All furloughs are canceled until further notice.”

Another soldier swears loudly.

The conversations change to complaints about this endless war and what a fine state of affairs it is when we aren’t even given any furloughs, and everyone has to stay here until he either is wounded or croaks. Everyone is sick to death of it all. It has just stopped raining, and the sun has reappeared. Most of the soldiers go out. One is snoring on the bench. I’m still sitting with my boil by the stove.

Outside everything is blossoming. The countryside is filled with fruit trees, so the bees are already very busy. The region is rocky and hilly, and here and there a little brook like the ones we have at home is flowing. There are also masses of fleas, but we are learning to catch them; it takes a quick hand. Don’t worry, because I’m fine. Kisses,

Your Boy

May 5, 1944

Dear Mutti,

One day after the next passes by without any change here. Now and then the Russians attack, but it’s no big deal. Three hours a night on the switchboard, and by day I go three houses away to get my rations in my mess kit. One or two hours a day are devoted to procuring eggs, wine, etc. Yesterday at noon, I brought a large watering can full of wine for the eight of us and definitely had the feeling “Will that be enough?”

And it’s exactly the same with eggs. When I return from my daily walk and have only ten to twelve eggs in my pocket, I really have to be thrifty until the next day. And in spite of all this, nothing ever tastes quite right. I would a thousand times rather have an egg prepared by you at home, on a clean dish in a proper room, than all these vast quantities. But that can’t be changed.

My only fruitful pursuit is the study of the Romanian language. It is often very difficult to figure out the meaning of separate words without a dictionary or grammar, but the pronunciation is easy for me, and I pick up complete idioms quickly since they are so similar to French and Italian.

Yesterday we had to sign papers to the effect that organizing and plundering will be punishable by death. In spite of that, we still have to herd the so-called Allied civilians out of their houses with rifle butts, in order to force them to dig trenches or build defenses.

You needn’t count on my having a furlough before August. They are creeping up the list accursedly slowly. But you can see that your son is thriving and even has a few decent thoughts in his head. Bussi bussi,

Your Georg

P.S. If you can discover a Romanian dictionary or something similar I’d be very grateful.

The tenth of May wasn’t much different from the days before. Konrad was struggling to bring a newly assigned telegraphist to the point where he could send or receive a message more or less without errors. The seventeen- and eighteen-year-olds who were currently arriving as reinforcements usually had received only a few weeks’ training, and accordingly their knowledge left much to be desired.

A few were able to send or receive Morse code in normal, quiet room conditions, but we could imagine all too easily how poorly they would function under fire, in a trench, or when those rushing waves of Russians came into view. Of course, it was exactly under those circumstances that it was most important to be able to transmit commands quickly and perfectly.

I was occupied with putting together a list of Romanian verbs, laboriously obtained from the local inhabitants. The door opened, and Funker Moser, who had been missing for six weeks, entered. With a slightly embarrassed smile, he tossed one of his rubbery salutes in Konrad’s direction and said, “Funker Moser reporting for duty.”

I filled a tin cup with the wine that was a constant on our table and held it out to Moser. I was happy to see my old herb collector, whom we all had believed lost.

When we were seated, Konrad asked, “What happened to you? The last time I saw you was in Pervomaysk, when you and Baby Schmidt got the order to repair a broken line.”

Moser rolled and unrolled his cap between his fingers, picking at the threads on the eagle with the swastika. Then he said, “There were too many Russians in the area. And a tank cut off our way back. So Schmidt and I just ran back to the rear.”

“Isn’t that what’s usually known as deserting?” asked Konrad.

“There were hundreds who were all running to the river.”

“And what happened then?”

“
Ja
, I was separated from Schmidt when we crossed the bridge. They ordered me to march off with a newly assembled battle group. Then we were loaded into a troop carrier and flown pretty far north. I was in heavy fighting with the Fifteenth for a long time.”

Meanwhile Moser had stood up and was rummaging around in his wash kit. A large onion appeared, and he laid it on the table.

Konrad asked, “And how did you get here?”

A second onion appeared along with two heads of garlic. “I could barely understand the North German accent in that regiment.”

“So?”

Moser had pulled out some folded-paper packages and began opening them, one after the other. “I asked to be reassigned to my old division, the 282nd. Two weeks later I got my marching orders.”

By now the table was covered with all the new splendors: the onions, garlic, dried marjoram and thyme, fresh parsley, a jute bag with coarse salt, and linden flowers that were still green and yellow.

“I brought those things,” said Moser with his shy smile, “so that the Herr officer could have something decent to eat again.”

Konrad could have submitted a report about Moser’s disappearance in Pervomaysk that would probably have led to considerable unpleasantness, and Moser knew that.

After a long pause, Konrad finally said, “Welcome back to the Second Battalion’s signal squad.”

That evening we had parsley potatoes with chicken in herb sauce and red wine. The linden-flower tea we sipped just before going to bed.

The East, May 17, 1944

Dear Papi,

Switchboard duty is the best opportunity for writing, especially at 4 a.m. With all the animals in the barnyard, one hasn’t a peaceful minute anymore. On top of everything else, our newest acquisition, a radio, begins playing and then I haven’t the quiet for writing a letter.

We have a real working farm in action now. When we arrived here the two women were sitting on the stove, staring into space or singing horrible Oriental songs. The barnyard was in terrible shape, and a half-starving ox and chicken were standing in the stable. The roof of the veranda was also threatening to cave in. The rooms were filthy, and the window was broken.

How that scene has changed! The house is clean and repaired; the women work all day and they seem to enjoy it. Twenty-seven chickens are running around in the barnyard, and they lay about twenty eggs a day. An ox, a cow, our three horses, three sheep, and, most recently, three geese are in the barn.

I also have my own dog, Flocki, a faithful animal that I rescued half starving a week ago and am lovingly nursing back to health, while teaching him his European manners. He is a very young mixture of pinscher, poodle, and dachshund—funny, faithful, and hungry. He loves artificial honey and chases our chickens around the barnyard. For four days we’ve had a cat that has three kittens in the attic.

I learn a few words of the local language every day, because I sit together with the inhabitants of the surrounding houses and gab with them about this and that. I’m very popular with them; I am often used as interpreter and they all simply call me Georg. Wherever I go I always hear my name. Often someone furtively sticks two or three eggs in my pocket, just to be sure that no other soldier will notice. For the girls of all ages I generally represent something special.

Thanks to my small language talents, I am often ordered out to organize wine or something else. That’s very rough then, when I’m sent into a house where I’m well known. In general the prevailing opinion is
Austriako nix zap zarap
—an Austrian doesn’t steal.

You could actually call our life here peaceful, were it not for the trench running from in front of our door to the cellar, which we have to use often when the Russians shoot over here. Now and then wounded are carried past, and then one realizes again that there’s a war on. The continuous machine-gun fire is the daily noise in the war, just like the sound of passing cars at home, and we don’t hear it at all anymore.

On occasion somebody leaves on furlough, and that means a lot, because everyone knows then that his turn has to come up eventually, too, even if it is still in the distant future. From here I could be in Vienna in four days.

Dear Papschi, everyone is starting to get up. Be well, give everyone my greetings, and enjoy the cigarettes that I have been able to furnish you with. Many loving greetings,

Your Georg

The East, May 25, 1944

Dear Mutti,

I have moved from our last position and am now in a house in the same village but only 800 meters from the foremost line, formed by a river. The Russians are sitting on the other bank and have a very nice overview of us. Now and then they also merrily shoot into our midst. In so doing they almost never wound soldiers but usually civilians, for these tend to run around in the open, unprotected.

Then, when someone is killed, a terrible wailing begins. There is weeping and at the same time the singing of some short, monotonous-sounding phrases. First of all, the closest relatives run weeping and singing through the village streets to announce their sorrow. Soon thereafter, all the women of the village come to the body, and each sings a crying prayer or stanza before she disappears again. In this manner they all file past.

The men pay no attention whatsoever but hammer around on a coffin a few meters farther away. Then, in the presence of thirty to forty women, accompanied by intense wailing, the body is washed and buried immediately.

On all this one can see so crassly the differences when somebody dies. Among us soldiers it is so insignificant. When you find out that someone has been killed, you don’t say much. Perhaps you tell each other some of the last, striking details from his life; you speculate about who will take over his function, and so the matter is settled. And then, by comparison, all this ceremony.

There is a long, narrow hollow a hundred meters away where we go riding daily. It is fun to gallop along on these lively, small horses and then trot around in circles like circus performers.

Slowly we have acquired a great deal of confidence with these unsaddled horses. I can’t remember a time that I’ve fallen off recently. My new friend Flocki is very sweet. He drinks wine just as happily as milk, and all of us spoil him a great deal. He gets lots of bones and barks at every stranger. For the rest, I’m fine. The business with the furloughs goes very, very slowly.

Many kisses,
Your Georg

LONG HOT SUMMER ON THE DNIESTER

June 1, 1944

Dear Mutti,

It seems as though it’s on purpose, that we’re not supposed to feel good even for a minute here at the front. In the winter we freeze, and the lice are always biting. During the summer it’s terrifically hot, and now it’s the fleas, mosquitoes, and flies biting for a change. These two seasons are separated by the periods of heavy mud and more lice. So the whole year through a soldier never has one moment when he can lie down and really feel contented.