They have taken us farther back than usual to a field depot so that
we can be re-organized. Our company needs more than a hundred
reinforcements.
In the meantime, when we are off duty, we loaf around. After a
couple of days Himmelstoss comes up to us. He has had the bounce
knocked out of him since he has been in the trenches and wants to get
on good terms with us. I am willing enough, because I saw how he
brought Haie Westhus in when he was hit in the back. Besides he's
decent enough to treat us at the canteen when we are out of funds.
Only Tjaden is still reserved and suspicious.
But he is won over, too, when Himmelstoss tells us that he is taking
the place of the sergeant-cook who has gone on leave. As a proof he
produces on the spot two pounds of sugar for us and a half-pound of
butter specially for Tjaden. He even sees to it that we are detailed
the next two or three days to the cook house for potato and turnip
peeling. The grub he gives us there is real officers' fare.
Thus for the moment we have the two things a soldier needs for
contentment: good food and rest. That's not much when one comes to
think of it. A couple of years ago we would have despised ourselves
terribly. But now we are quite happy. It is all a matter of
habit--even the front line.
Habit is the explanation of why we seem to forget things so quickly.
Yesterday we were under fire, to-day we act the fool and go foraging
through the countryside, to-morrow we go up to the trenches again.
We forget nothing really. But so long as we have to stay here in the
field, the front-line days, when they are past, sink down in us like
a stone; they are too serious for us to be able to reflect on them at
once. If we did that, we should have been destroyed long ago. I
soon found out this much:--terror can be endured so long as a man
simply ducks;--but it kills, if a man thinks about it.
Just as we turn into animals when we go up to the line, because that
is the only thing which brings us through safely, so we turn into
wags and loafers when we are out resting. We can do nothing else, it
is a sheer necessity. We want to live at any price; so we cannot
burden ourselves with feelings which, though they might be ornamental
enough in peace time, would be out of place here. Kemmerich is dead,
Haie Westhus is dying, they will have a job with Hans Kramer's body
at the Judgment Day, piecing it together after a direct hit; Martens
has no legs any more, Meyer is dead, Max is dead, Beyer is dead,
Hammerling is dead, there are a hundred and twenty wounded men lying
somewhere or other; it is a damnable business, but what has it to do
with us now--we live. If it were possible for us to save them, then
it would be seen how much we cared--we would have a shot at it though
we went under ourselves; for we can be damned quixotic when we like;
fear we do not know much about--terror of death, yes; but that is a
different matter, that is physical.
But our comrades are dead, we cannot help them, they have their
rest--and who knows what is waiting for us? We will make ourselves
comfortable and sleep, and eat as much as we can stuff into our
bellies, and drink and smoke so that the hours are not wasted. Life
is short.
* *
The terror of the front sinks deep down when we turn our backs upon
it; we make grim, coarse jests about it, when a man dies, then we say
he had nipped off his turd, and so we speak of everything; that keeps
us from going mad; as long as we take it that way we maintain our own
resistance.
But we do not forget. It's all rot that they put in the war-news
about the good humour of the troops, how they are arranging dances
almost before they are out of the front-line. We don't act like that
because we are in a good humour: we are in a good humour because
otherwise we should go to pieces. If it were not so we could not
hold out much longer; our humour becomes more bitter every month.
And this I know: all these things that now, while we are still in the
war, sink down in us like a stone, after the war shall waken again,
and then shall begin the disentanglement of life and death.
The days, the weeks, the years out here shall come back again, and
our dead comrades shall then stand up again and march with us, our
heads shall be clear, we shall have a purpose, and so we shall march,
our dead comrades beside us, the years at the Front behind
us:--against whom, against whom?
* *
Some time ago there was an army theatre in these parts. Coloured
posters of the performances are still sticking on a hoarding. With
wide eyes Kropp and I stand in front of it. We can hardly credit
that such things still exist. A girl in a light summer dress, with a
red patent-leather belt about her hips! She is standing with one
hand on a railing and with the other she holds a straw hat. She
wears white stockings and white shoes, fine buckle shoes with high
heels. Behind her smiles a blue lake with white-horses, at the side
is a bright bay. She is a lovely girl with a delicate nose, red
lips, and slender legs, wonderfully clean and well cared for, she
certainly bathes twice a day and never has any dirt under her nails.
At most perhaps a bit of sand from the beach.
Beside her stands a man in white trousers, a bluejacket, and sailor's
cap; but he interests us much less.
The girl on the poster is a wonder to us. We have quite forgotten
that there are such things, and even now we hardly believe our eyes.
We have seen nothing like it for years, nothing like it for
happiness, beauty, and joy. That is peace time, that is as it should
be; we feel excited.
"Just look at those thin shoes though, she couldn't march many miles
in those," I say, and then begin to feel silly, for it is absurd to
stand in front of a picture like this and think of nothing but
marching.
"How old would she be?" Kropp asks.
"About twenty-two at the most," I hazard.
"Then she would be older than us! She is not more than seventeen,
let me tell you!"
It gives us goose-flesh.
"That would be good, Albert, what do you think?"
He nods. "I have some white trousers at home too."
"White trousers," say I, "but a girl like that----"
We look askance at one another. There's not much to boast of
here--two ragged, stained, and dirty uniforms. It is hopeless to
compete.
So we proceed to tear the young man with the white trousers off the
hoarding, taking care not to damage the girl. That is something
towards it.
"We could go and get deloused, anyway," Kropp then suggests.
I am not very enthusiastic because it doesn't do one's clothes any
good and a man is lousy again inside two hours. But when we have
considered the picture once more, I declare myself willing. I even
go farther.
"We might see if we could get a clean shirt as well----"
"Socks might be better," says Albert, not without reason.
"Yes, socks too perhaps. Let's go and explore a bit."
Then Leer and Tjaden stroll up; they look at the poster and
immediately the conversation becomes smutty. Leer was the first of
our class to have intercourse, and he gave stirring details of it.
After his fashion he enjoys himself over the picture, and Tjaden
supports him nobly.
It does not distress us exactly. Who isn't smutty is no soldier; it
merely does not suit us at the moment, so we edge away and march off
to the delousing station with the same feeling as if it were a swell
gentlemen's outfitters.
* *
The houses in which we are billeted lie near the canal. On the other
side of the canal there are ponds flanked with poplars;--on the other
side of the canal there are women too.
The houses on our side have been abandoned. On the other side though
one occasionally sees inhabitants.
In the evening we go swimming. Three women come strolling along the
bank. They walk slowly and don't look away, although we have no
bathing suits.
Leer calls out to them. They laugh and stop to watch us. We fling
remarks at them in broken French, anything that comes into our heads,
hastily and all jumbled together, anything to detain them. They are
not specially wonderful pieces, but then where are such to be had
about here?
There is one slim little brunette. Her teeth gleam when she laughs.
She has quick movements, her dress swings loosely about her legs.
Although the water is cold we are very jovial and do our best to
interest them so that they will stay. We try to make jokes and they
answer with things we cannot understand; we laugh and beckon. Tjaden
is more crafty. He runs into the house, gets a loaf of army bread
and holds it up.
That produces a great effect. They nod and beckon us to come over.
But we don't dare to do that. It is forbidden to cross to the
opposite bank. There are sentries on all the bridges. It's
impossible without a pass. So we indicate that they should come over
to us; but they shake their heads and point to the bridge. They are
not allowed to pass either. They turn away and walk slowly down the
canal, keeping along the tow-path all the way. We accompany them
swimming. After a few hundred yards they turn off and point to a
house that stands a little distance away among the trees and
shrubbery.
Leer asks if they live there.
They laugh--sure, that's their house.
We call out to them that we would like to come, sometime when the
guards cannot see us. At night. To-night.
They raise their hands, put them together, rest their faces on them
and shut their eyes. They understand. The slim brunette does a
two-step. The blonde girl twitters: "Bread--good----"
Eagerly we assure them that we will bring some with us. And other
tasty bits too, we roll our eyes and try to explain with our hands.
Leer nearly drowns trying to demonstrate a sausage. If it were
necessary we would promise them a whole quartermaster's store. They
go off and frequently turn and look back. We climb out on the bank
on our side of the canal and watch to see whether they go into the
house for they might easily have been lying. Then we swim back.
No one can cross the bridge without leave, so we will simply have to
swim over at night. We are full of excitement. We cannot last out
without a drink, so we go to the canteen where there is beer and a
kind of punch.
We drink punch and tell one another lying tales of our experiences.
Each man gladly believes the other man's story, only waiting
impatiently till he can cap it with a taller one. Our hands are
fidgety, we smoke countless cigarettes, until Kropp says: "We might
as well take them a couple of cigarettes too." So we put some inside
our caps to keep them.
The sky turns apple-green. There are four of us, but only three can
go; we must shake off Tjaden, so ply him with rum and punch until he
rocks. As it turns dark we go to our billets, Tjaden in the centre.
We are all glowing and full of a lust for adventure.
The little brunette is mine, we settled that by cutting for her.
Tjaden drops on his sack of straw and snores. Once he wakes up and
grins so craftily that we are alarmed and begin to think he is
cheating, and that we have given him the punch to no purpose. Then
he drops back again and sleeps on.
We each get hold of a whole army loaf and wrap it up in newspaper.
The cigarettes we put in too, as well as three good rations of
liver-sausage that were issued to us this evening. That makes a
decent present.
We stow the things carefully in our boots; we have to take them to
protect our feet against treading on wire and broken glass on the
other bank. As we must swim for it we can take no other clothes.
But it is not far and quite dark.
We make off with our boots in our hands. Swiftly we slip into the
water, lie on our backs and swim, holding the boots with their
contents up over our heads.
We climb out carefully on the opposite bank, take out the packages
and put on our boots. We put the things under our arms. And so, all
wet and naked, clothed only in our boots, we break into a trot. We
find the house at once. It lies among the trees. Leer trips over a
root and skins his elbows.
"No matter," he says gaily.
The windows are shuttered. We slip round the house and try to peer
through the cracks. Then we grow impatient. Suddenly Kropp
hesitates:
"What if there's a Major in with them?"
"Then we just clear off," grins Leer, "he can try to read our
regimental numbers here," and smacks his behind.
The door of the court-yard stands open. Our boots make a great
clatter. The house door opens, a chink of light shines through and a
woman cries out in a scared voice.
"Ssh, ssh! camerade--bon ami--" we say, and show our packages
protestingly.
The other two are now on the scene, the door opens wide and the light
floods over us. They recognize us and all three burst into laughter
at our appearance. They rock and sway in the doorway, they laugh so
much. How supple their movements are!
"Un moment--" They disappear and throw us bits of clothing which we
gladly wrap round ourselves. Then we venture in. A small lamp burns
in the room, which is warm and smells a little of perfume. We unwrap
our parcels and hand them over to the women. Their eyes shine, it is
obvious that they are hungry.
Then we all become rather embarrassed. Leer makes the gestures of
eating, and then they come to life again and bring out plates and
knives and fall to on the food, and they hold up every slice of
liver-sausage and admire it before they eat it, and we sit proudly by.
They overwhelm us with their chatter;--we understand very little of
it, but we listen and the words sound friendly. No doubt we all look
very young. The little brunette strokes my hair and says what all
the French women say: "La guerre--grand malheur--pauvres garçons----"
I hold her arm tightly and press my lips into the palm of her hand.
Her fingers close round my face. Close above me are her bewildering
eyes, the soft brown of her skin and her red lips. Her mouth speaks
words I do not understand. Nor do I fully understand her eyes; they
seem to say more than we anticipated when we came here.
There are other rooms adjoining. In passing I see Leer, he has made
a great hit with the blonde. And he knows it, too. But I--I am lost
in remoteness, in weakness, and in a passion to which I yield myself
trustingly. My desires are strangely compounded of yearning and
misery. I feel giddy, there is nothing here that a man can hold on
to. We have left our boots at the door, they have given us slippers
instead, and now nothing remains to recall for me the assurance and
self-confidence of the soldier: no rifle, no belt, no tunic, no cap.
I let myself drop into the unknown, come what may--yet, in spite of
all, I feel somewhat afraid.
The little brunette contracts her brows when she is thinking; but
when she talks they are still. And often the sound does not quite
become a word but suffocates or floats away over me half-finished; an
arch, a pathway, a comet. What have I known of it--what do I know of
it?--The words of this foreign tongue, that I hardly understand, they
caress me to a quietness, in which the room grows dim, and dissolves
in the half light, and only the face above me lives and is clear.
How various is a face; but an hour ago it was strange and now it is
touched with a tenderness that comes, not from it, but out of the
night, the world and the blood, all these things seem to shine in it
together. The objects in the room are touched by it and transformed,
they become isolated, and I feel almost awed at the sight of my clear
skin when the light of the lamp falls upon it and the cool, brown
hand passes over it.
How different all this is from the conditions in the soldier's
brothels, to which we are allowed to go, and where we have to wait in
long queues. I wish I never thought of them; but desire turns my
mind to them involuntarily and I am afraid, for it might be
impossible ever to be free of them again.
But then I feel the lips of the little brunette and press myself
against them, my eyes close and I let it all fall from me, war and
terror and grossness, in order to awaken young and happy; I think of
the picture of the girl on the poster and, for a moment, believe that
my life depends on winning her. And if I press ever deeper into the
arms that embrace me, perhaps a miracle may happen....
. . . . . . . .
So, after a time we find ourselves reassembled again. Leer is in
high spirits. We pull on our boots and take our leave warmly. The
night air cools our hot bodies. The rustling poplars loom large in
the darkness. The moon floats in the heavens and in the waters of
the canal. We do not run, we walk beside one another with long
strides.
"That was worth a ration-loaf," says Leer.
I cannot trust myself to speak, I am not in the least happy.
Then we hear footsteps and dodge behind a shrub.
The steps come nearer, close by us. We see a naked soldier, in
boots, just like ourselves; he has a package under his arm, and
gallops onward. It is Tjaden in full course. He has disappeared
already.
We laugh. In the morning he will curse us.
Unobserved, we arrive again at our sacks of straw.
* *
I am called to the Orderly Room. The Company Commander gives me a
leave-pass and a travel-pass and wishes me a good journey. I look to
see how much leave I have got. Seventeen days--fourteen days leave
and three days for travelling. It is not enough and I ask whether I
cannot have five days for travelling. Bertinck points to my pass.
There I see that I am not to return to the front immediately. After
my leave I have to report for a course of training to a camp on the
moors.
The others congratulate me. Kat gives me good advice, and tells me I
ought to try to get a base-job. "If you are smart, you'll hang on to
it."
I would rather not have gone for another eight days; we are to stay
here that much longer and it is good here.
Naturally I have to stand the others drinks at the canteen. We are
all a little bit drunk. I become gloomy: I will be away for six
weeks-- That is lucky of course, but what may happen before I get
back? Shall I meet all these fellows again? Already Haie has
gone--who will the next be?
As we drink, I look at each of them in turn. Albert sits beside me
and smokes, he is silent, we have always been together;--opposite
squats Kat, with his drooping shoulders, his broad thumb, and calm
voice--Müller with the protruding teeth and the booming laugh; Tjaden
with his mousey eyes;--Leer who has grown a full beard and looks at
least forty.
Over us hangs a dense cloud of smoke. Where would a soldier be
without tobacco. The canteen is his refuge, and beer is far more
than a drink, it is a token that a man can move his limbs and stretch
in safety. We do it ceremonially, we stretch our legs out in front
of us and spit deliberately, that is the only way. How it all rises
up before a man when he is going away the next morning!
At night we go again to the other side of the canal. I am almost
afraid to tell the little brunette that I am going away, and when I
return we will certainly be far away from here; we will never see one
another again. But she merely nods and takes no special notice. At
first I am at a loss to understand, then it suddenly dawns on me.
Yes, Leer is right: if I were going up to the front, then she would
have again called me "pauvre garçon"; but merely going on leave--she
does not want to hear about that, that is not nearly so interesting.
May she go to the devil with her chattering talk. A man dreams of a
miracle and wakes up to loaves of bread.
Next morning, after I have been de-loused, I go to the rail head.
Albert and Kat come with me. At the halt we learn that it will be a
couple of hours yet before the train leaves. The other two have to
go back to duty. We take leave of one another.
"Good luck, Kat; good luck, Albert."
They go off and wave once or twice. Their figures dwindle. I know
their every step and movement; I would recognize them at any
distance. Then they disappear. I sit down on my pack and wait.
Suddenly I become filled with a consuming impatience to be gone.
* *
I lie down on many a station platform; I stand before many a
soup-kitchen; I squat on many a bench;--then at last the landscape
becomes gloomy, mysterious, and familiar. It glides past the western
windows with its villages, their thatched roofs like caps, pulled
over the white-washed, half-timbered houses, its corn-fields,
gleaming like mother-of-pearl in the slanting light, its orchards,
its barns and old lime trees.
The names of the stations begin to take on meaning and my heart
trembles. The train stamps and stamps onward, I stand at the window
and hold on to the frame. These names mark the boundaries of my
youth.
Smooth meadows, fields, farm-yards; a solitary team moves against the
sky-line along the road that runs parallel to the horizon--a barrier,
before which peasants stand waiting, girls waving, children playing
on the embankment, roads, leading into the country, smooth roads
without artillery.
It is evening, and if the train did not rattle I should cry out. The
plain unfolds itself.
In the distance, the soft, blue silhouette of the mountain ranges
begins to appear. I recognize the characteristic outline of the
Dolbenberg, a jagged comb, springing up precipitously from the limit
of the forests. Behind it should lie the town.
But now the sun streams through the world, dissolving everything in
its golden-red light, the train swings round one curve and then
another;--far away, in a long line one behind the other, stand the
poplars, unsubstantial, swaying and dark, fashioned out of shadow,
light, and desire.
The field swings round as the train encircles it, and the intervals
between the trees diminish; the trees become a block and for a moment
I see one only--then they reappear from behind the foremost tree and
stand out a long line against the sky until they are hidden by the
first houses.
A street-crossing. I stand at the window, I cannot drag myself away.
The others put their baggage ready for getting out. I repeat to
myself the name of the Street that we cross
over--Bremerstrasse--Bremerstrasse--
Below there are cyclists, lorries, men; it is a grey street and a
grey subway;--it embraces me as though it were my mother.
Then the train stops, and there is the station with noise and cries
and sentries. I pick up my pack and fasten the straps, I take my
rifle in my hand and stumble down the steps.
On the platform I look round; I know no one among all the people
hurrying to and fro. A red-cross sister offers me something to
drink. I turn away, she smiles at me too foolishly, so obsessed with
her own importance: "Just look, I am giving a soldier coffee!"--She
calls me "Comrade," but I will have none of it.
Outside in front of the station the stream roars alongside the
street, it rushes foaming from the sluices of the mill bridge. There
stands the old, square watch-tower, in front of it the great mottled
lime tree and behind it the evening.
Here we have often sat--how long ago it is--; we have passed over
this bridge and breathed the cool, acid smell of the stagnant water;
we have leaned over the still water on this side of the lock, where
the green creepers and weeds hang from the piles of the bridge;--and
on hot days we rejoiced in the spouting foam on the other side of the
lock and told tales about our school-teachers.
I pass over the bridge, I look right and left; the water is as full
of weeds as ever, and it still shoots over in gleaming arches; in the
tower-building laundresses still stand with bare arms as they used to
over the clean linen, and the heat from the ironing pours out through
the open windows. Dogs trot along the narrow street, before the
doors of the houses people stand and follow me with their gaze as I
pass by, dirty and heavy laden.
In this confectioner's we used to eat ices, and there we learned to
smoke cigarettes. Walking down the street I know every shop, the
colonial warehouse, the chemist's, the tobacconist's. Then at last I
stand before the brown door with its worn latch and my hand grows
heavy. I open the door and a wonderful freshness comes out to meet
me, my eyes are dim.
The stairs creak under my boots. Upstairs a door rattles, someone is
looking over the railing. It is the kitchen door that was opened,
they are cooking potato-cakes, the house reeks of it, and to-day of
course is Saturday; that will be my sister leaning over. For a
moment I am shy and lower my head, then I take off my helmet and look
up. Yes, it is my eldest sister.
"Paul," she cries, "Paul----"
I nod, my pack bumps against the banisters; my rifle is so heavy.
She pulls a door open and calls: "Mother, mother, Paul is here."
I can go no further--mother, mother, Paul is here.
I lean against the wall and grip my helmet and rifle. I hold them as
tight as I can, but I cannot take another step, the staircase fades
before my eyes, I support myself with the butt of my rifle against my
feet and clench my teeth fiercely, but I cannot speak a word, my
sister's call has made me powerless, I can do nothing, I struggle to
make myself laugh, to speak, but no word comes, and so I stand on the
steps, miserable, helpless, paralysed, and against my will the tears
run down my cheeks.
My sister comes back and says: "Why, what is the matter?"
Then I pull myself together and stagger on to the landing. I lean my
rifle in a corner, I set my pack against the wall, place my helmet on
it, and fling down my equipment and baggage. Then I say fiercely:
"Bring me a handkerchief."
She gives me one from the cupboard and I dry my face. Above me on
the wall hangs the glass case with the coloured butterflies that once
I collected.
Now I hear my mother's voice. It comes from the bedroom.
"Is she in bed?" I ask my sister.
"She is ill--" she replies.
I go in to her, give her my hand and say as calmly as I can: "Here I
am, mother."
She lies still in the dim light. Then she asks anxiously:
"Are you wounded?" and I feel her searching glance.
"No, I have got leave."
My mother is very pale. I am afraid to make a light.
"Here I lie now," says she, "and cry instead of being glad."
"Are you sick, mother?" I ask.
"I am going to get up a little to-day," she says and turns to my
sister, who is continually running to the kitchen to watch that the
food does not burn: "And put out the jar of preserved
whortleberries--you like that, don't you?" she asks me.
"Yes, mother, I haven't had any for a long time."
"We might almost have known you were coming," laughs my sister,
"there is just your favourite dish, potato-cakes, and even
whortleberries to go with them too."
"And it is Saturday," I add.
"Sit here beside me," says my mother.
She looks at me. Her hands are white and sickly and frail compared
with mine. We say very little, and I am thankful that she asks
nothing. What ought I to say? Everything I could have wished for
has happened. I have come out of it safely and sit here beside her.
And in the kitchen stands my sister making the evening bread and
singing.
"Dear boy," says my mother softly.
We were never very demonstrative in our family; poor folk who toil
and are full of cares are not so. It is not their way to protest
what they already know. When my mother says to me "dear boy," it
means much more than when another uses it. I know well enough that
the jar of whortleberries is the only one they have had for months,
and that she has kept it for me; and the somewhat stale cakes that
she gives me too. She has taken a favourable opportunity of getting
a few and has put them all by for me.
I sit by her bed, and through the window the chestnut trees in the
beer garden opposite glow in brown and gold. I breathe deeply and
say over to myself:--"You are at home, you are at home." But a sense
of strangeness will not leave me, I can find nothing of myself in all
these things. There is my mother, there is my sister, there my case
of butterflies, and there the mahogany piano--but I am not myself
there. There is a distance, a veil between us.
I go and fetch my pack to the bedside and turn out the things I have
brought--a whole Edamer cheese, that Kat provided me with, two loaves
of army bread, three-quarters of a pound of butter, two tins of
liver-sausage, a pound of dripping and a little bag of rice.
"I suppose you can make some use of that----"
They nod.
"Is it pretty bad for food here?" I enquire.
"Yes, there's not much. Do you get enough out there?"
I smile and point to the things I have brought. "Not always quite so
much as that, of course, but we fare reasonably well."
Erna goes out to bring in the food. Suddenly my mother seizes hold
of my hand and asks falteringly: "Was it very bad out there, Paul?"
Mother, what should I answer to that! You would not understand, and
never realize it. And you never should realize it. Was it bad, you
ask.--You, Mother,--I shake my head and say: "No, mother, not so
very. There are always a lot of us together so it isn't so bad."
"Yes, but Heinrich Bredemeyer was here just lately and he said it was
terrible out there now, with the gas and all the rest of it."
It is my mother who says that. She says: "With the gas and all the
rest of it." She does not know what she is saying, she is merely
anxious for me. Should I tell her how we once found three enemy
trenches with their garrison all stiff as though stricken with
apoplexy? Against the parapet, in the dugouts, just where they were,
the men stood and lay about, with blue faces, dead.
"No, mother, that's only talk," I answer, "there's not very much in
what Bredemeyer says. You see for instance, I'm well and fit----"
Before my mother's tremulous anxiety I recover my composure. Now I
can walk about and talk and answer questions without fear of having
suddenly to lean against the wall because the world turns soft as
rubber and my veins become brimstone.
My mother wants to get up. So I go for a while to my sister in the
kitchen. "What is the matter with her?" I ask.
She shrugs her shoulders: "She has been in bed two months now, but we
did not want to write and tell you. Several doctors have been to see
her. One of them said it is probably cancer again."
* *
I go to the district commandant to report myself. Slowly I wander
through the streets. Occasionally someone speaks to me. I do not
delay long for I have little inclination to talk.
On my way back from the barracks a loud voice calls out to me. Still
lost in thought I turn round and find myself confronted by a Major.
"Can't you salute?" he blusters.
"Sorry, Major," I say in embarrassment, "I didn't notice you."
"Don't you know how to speak properly?" he roars.
I would like to hit him in the face, but control myself, for my leave
depends on it. I click my heels and say: "I did not see you, Herr
Major."
"Then keep your eyes open," he snorts.
"What is your name?" I give it.
His fat red face is furious. "What regiment?"
I give him full particulars. Even yet he has not had enough. "Where
are they?"
But I have had more than enough and say: "Between Langemark and
Bixschoote."
"Eh?" he asks, a bit stupefied.
I explain to him that I arrived on leave only an hour or two since,
thinking that he would then trot along. But not at all. He gets
even more furious: "You think you can bring your front-line manners
here, what? Well, we don't stand that sort of thing. Thank God, we
have discipline here!"
"Twenty paces backwards, double march!" he commands.
I am mad with rage. But I cannot say anything to him; he could put
me under arrest if he liked. So I double back, and then march up to
him. Six paces from him I spring to a stiff salute and maintain it
until I am six paces beyond him.
He calls me back again and affably gives me to understand that for
once he is pleased to put mercy before justice. I pretend to be duly
grateful. "Now, dismiss!" he says. I turn about smartly and march
off.
That ruins the evening for me. I go back home and throw my uniform
into a corner; I ought to have done that before. Then I take out my
civilian clothes from the wardrobe and put them on.
I feel awkward. The suit is rather tight and short, I have grown in
the army. Collar and tie give me some trouble. In the end my sister
ties the bow for me. But how light the suit is, it feels as though I
had nothing on but a shirt and underpants.
I look at myself in the glass. It is a strange sight. A sunburnt,
overgrown candidate for confirmation gazes at me in astonishment.
My mother is pleased to see me wearing civilian clothes; it makes me
less strange to her. But my father would rather I kept my uniform on
so that he could take me to visit his acquaintances.
But I refuse.
* *
It is pleasant to sit quietly somewhere, in the beer-garden for
example, under the chestnuts by the skittle-alley. The leaves fall
down on the table and on the ground, only a few, the first. A glass
of beer stands in front of me, I've learned to drink in the army.
The glass is half empty, but there are still a few good swigs ahead
of me, and besides I can always order a second and a third if I wish
to. There are no bugles and no bombardments, the children of the
house play in the skittle-alley, and the dog rests his head against
my knee. The sky is blue, between the leaves of the chestnuts rises
the green spire of St. Margaret's Church.
This is good, I like it. But I cannot get on with the people. My
mother is the only one who asks no questions. Not so my father. He
wants me to tell him about the front; he is curious in a way that I
find stupid and distressing; I no longer have any real contact with
him. There is nothing he likes more than just hearing about it. I
realize he does not know that a man cannot talk of such things; I
would do it willingly, but it is too dangerous for me to put these
things into words. I am afraid they might then become gigantic and I
be no longer able to master them. What would become of us if
everything that happens out there were quite clear to us?
So I confine myself to telling him a few amusing things. But he
wants to know whether I have ever had a hand-to-hand fight. I say
"No," and get up and go out.
But that does not mend matters. After I have been startled a couple
of times in the street by the screaming of the tramcars, which
resembles the shriek of a shell coming straight for one, somebody
taps me on the shoulder. It is my German-master, and he fastens on
me with the usual question: "Well, how are things out there?
Terrible, terrible, eh? Yes, it is dreadful, but we must carry on.
And after all, you do at least get decent food out there, so I hear.
You look well, Paul, and fit. Naturally it's worse here. Naturally.
The best for our soldiers every time, that goes without saying."
He drags me along to a table with a lot of others. They welcome me,
a head-master shakes hands with me and says: "So you come from the
front? What is the spirit like out there? Excellent, eh? excellent?"
I explain that no one would be sorry to be back home.
He laughs uproariously. "I can well believe it! But first you have
to give the Froggies a good hiding. Do you smoke? Here, try one.
Waiter, bring a beer as well for our young warrior."
Unfortunately I have accepted the cigar, so I have to remain. And
they are all so dripping with good will that it is impossible to
object. All the same I feel annoyed and smoke like a chimney as hard
as I can. In order to make at least some show of appreciation I toss
off the beer in one gulp. Immediately a second is ordered; people
know how much they are indebted to the soldiers. They argue about
what we ought to annex. The head-master with the steel watch-chain
wants to have at least the whole of Belgium, the coal-areas of
France, and a slice of Russia. He produces reasons why we must have
them and is quite inflexible until at last the others give in to him.
Then he begins to expound just whereabouts in France the
break-through must come, and turns to me: "Now, shove ahead a bit out
there with your everlasting trench warfare--Smash through the
johnnies and then there will be peace."
I reply that in our opinion a break-through may not be possible. The
enemy may have too many reserves. Besides, the war may be rather
different from what people think.
He dismisses the idea loftily and informs me I know nothing about it.
"The details, yes," says he, "but this relates to the whole. And of
that you are not able to judge. You see only your little sector and
so cannot have any general survey. You do your duty, you risk your
lives, that deserves the highest honour--every man of you ought to
have the Iron Cross--but first of all the enemy line must be broken
through in Flanders and then rolled up from the top."
He blows his nose and wipes his beard. "Completely rolled up they
must be, from the top to the bottom. And then to Paris."
I would like to know just how he pictures it to himself, and pour the
third glass of beer into me. Immediately he orders another.
But I break away. He stuffs a few more cigars into my pocket and
sends me off with a friendly slap. "All of the best! I hope we will
soon hear something worth while from you."
* *
I imagined leave would be different from this. Indeed, it was
different a year ago. It is I of course that have changed in the
interval. There lies a gulf between that time and to-day. At that
time I still knew nothing about the war, we had been only in quiet
sectors. But now I see that I have been crushed without knowing it.
I find I do not belong here any more, it is a foreign world. Some of
these people ask questions, some ask no questions, but one can see
that they are quite confident they know all about it; they often say
so with their air of comprehension, so there is no point in
discussing it. They make up a picture of it for themselves.
I prefer to be alone, so that no one troubles me. For they all come
back to the same thing, how badly it goes and how well it goes; one
thinks it is this way, another that; and yet they are always absorbed
in the things that go to make up their own existence. Formerly I
lived in just the same way myself, but now I feel no contact here any
longer.
They talk to me too much. They have worries, aims, desires, that I
cannot comprehend. I often sit with one of them in the little
beer-garden and try to explain to him that this is really the only
thing: just to sit quietly, like this. They understand of course,
they agree, they may even feel it so too, but only with words, only
with words, yes, that is it--they feel it, but always with only half
of themselves, the rest of their being is taken up with other things,
they are so divided in themselves that none feels it with his whole
essence; I cannot even say myself exactly what I mean.
When I see them here, in their rooms, in their offices, about their
occupations, I feel an irresistible attraction in it, I would like
to be here too and forget the war; but also it repels me, it is so
narrow, how can that fill a man's life, he ought to smash it to bits;
how can they do it, while out at the front the splinters are whining
over the shell-holes and the star-shells go up, the wounded are carried
back on water-proof sheets and comrades crouch in the trenches.--They
are different men here, men I cannot properly understand, whom I envy
and despise. I must think of Kat and Albert and Müller and Tjaden,
what will they be doing? No doubt they are sitting in the canteen, or
perhaps swimming--soon they will have to go up to the front-line again.
* *
In my room behind the table stands a brown leather sofa. I sit down
on it.
On the walls are pasted countless pictures that I once used to cut
out of the newspapers. In between are drawings and postcards that
have come my way. In the corner is a small iron stove. Against the
wall opposite stand the book-shelves with my books.
I used to live in this room before I was a soldier. The books I
bought gradually with the money I earned by coaching. Many of them
are second-hand, all the classics for example, one volume in blue
cloth boards cost one mark twenty pfennig. I bought them complete
because I was thoroughgoing, I did not trust the editors of
selections, even though they may have chosen all the best. So I
purchased only "collected works." I read most of them with laudable
zeal, but few of them really appealed to me. I preferred the other
books, the moderns, which were of course much dearer. A few I came
by not quite honestly, I borrowed and did not return them because I
did not want to part with them.
One shelf is filled with school books. They are not so well cared
for, they are badly thumbed, and pages have been torn out for certain
purposes. Then below are periodicals, papers, and letters all jammed
in together with drawings and rough sketches.
I want to think myself back into that time. It is still in the room,
I feel it at once, the walls have preserved it. My hands rest on the
arms of the sofa; now I make myself at home and draw up my legs so
that I sit comfortably in the corner, in the arms of the sofa. The
little window is open, through it I see the familiar picture of the
street with the rising spire of the church at the end. There are a
couple of flowers on the table. Pen-holders, a shell as a
paper-weight, the ink-well--here nothing is changed.
It will be like this too, if I am lucky, when the war is over and I
come back here for good. I will sit here just like this and look at
my room and wait.
I feel excited; but I do not want to be, for that is not right. I
want that quiet rapture again. I want to feel the same powerful,
nameless urge that I used to feel when I turned to my books. The
breath of desire that then arose from the coloured backs of the
books, shall fill me again, melt the heavy, dead lump of lead that
lies somewhere in me and waken again the impatience of the future,
the quick joy in the world of thought, it shall bring back again the
lost eagerness of my youth. I sit and wait.
It occurs to me that I must go and see Kemmerich's mother;--I might
visit Mittelstaedt too, he should be at the barracks. I look out of
the window;--beyond the sober picture of the street appears a range
of hills, distant and light; it changes to a clear day in autumn, and
I sit by the fire with Kat and Albert and eat potatoes baked in their
skins.
But I do not want to think of that, I sweep it away. The room shall
speak, it must catch me up and hold me, I want to feel that I belong
here, I want to hearken and know when I go back to the front that the
war will sink down, be drowned utterly in the great home-coming tide,
know that it will then be past for ever, and not gnaw us continually,
that it will have none but an outward power over us.
The backs of the books stand in rows. I know them all still, I
remember arranging them in order. I implore them with my eyes: Speak
to me--take me up--take me, Life of my Youth--you who are care-free,
beautiful--receive me again--
I wait, I wait.
Images float through my mind, but they do not grip me, they are mere
shadows and memories.
Nothing--nothing--
My disquietude grows.
A terrible feeling of foreignness suddenly rises up in me. I cannot
find my way back, I am shut out though I entreat earnestly and put
forth all my strength.
Nothing stirs; listless and wretched, like a condemned man, I sit
there and the past withdraws itself. And at the same time I fear to
importune it too much, because I do not know what might happen then.
I am a soldier, I must cling to that.
Wearily I stand up and look out of the window. Then I take one of
the books, intending to read, and turn over the leaves. But I put it
away and take out another. There are passages in it that have been
marked. I look, turn over the pages, take up fresh books. Already
they are piled up beside me. Speedily more join the heap, papers,
magazines, letters.
I stand there dumb. As before a judge.
Dejected.
Words, Words, Words--they do not reach me.
Slowly I place the books back in the shelves.
Nevermore.
Quietly, I go out of the room.
* *
Still I do not give up hope. I do not, indeed, go to my room any
more, but comfort myself with the thought that a few days are not
enough to judge by. Afterwards--later on--there is plenty of time
for that.
So I go over to see Mittelstaedt in the barracks, and we sit in his
room, there is an atmosphere about it that I do not like but with
which I am quite familiar.
Mittelstaedt has some news ready for me that electrifies me on the
spot. He tells me Kantorek has been called up as a territorial.
"Just think of it," says he, and takes out a couple of good cigars,
"I come back here from the hospital and bump right into him. He
stretches out his paw to me and bleats: 'Hullo Mittelstaedt, how are
you?'--I look at him and say: 'Territorial Kantorek, business is
business and schnapps is schnapps, you ought to know that well enough
yourself. Stand to attention when you speak to a superior officer.'
You should have seen his face! A cross between a dud and a pickled
cucumber. He tried once again to chum up. So I snubbed him a bit
harder. Then he brought up his biggest guns and asked
confidentially: 'Would you like me to use my influence so that you
can take an emergency-exam.?' He was trying to remind me of those
things, you know. Then I got mad and I reminded him of something
instead. 'Territorial Kantorek, two years ago you preached us into
enlisting; and among us there was one, Joseph Behm, who didn't want
to enlist. He was killed three months before he would have been
called up in the ordinary way. If it had not been for you he would
have lived just that much longer. And now: Dismiss. You will hear
from me later.' It was easy to get put in charge of his company.
First thing I did was to take him to the stores and fit him out with
a suitable equipment. You will see in a minute."
We go out to the parade ground. The company has fallen in.
Mittelstaedt stands them at ease and inspects.
Then I see Kantorek and am scarcely able to stifle my laughter. He
is wearing a faded blue tunic. On the back and in the sleeves there
are big dark patches. The overcoat must have belonged to a giant.
The black, worn breeches are just as much too short; they reach
barely halfway down his calf. The boots, tough old clod-hoppers,
with turned-up toes and laces at the side, are much too big for him.
But as a compensation the cap is too small, a terribly dirty, mean
little pill-box. The whole rig-out is just pitiful.
Mittelstaedt stops in front of him: "Territorial Kantorek, do you
call those buttons polished? You seem as though you can never learn.
Inadequate, Kantorek, quite inadequate----"
It makes me bubble with glee. In school Kantorek used to chasten
Mittelstaedt with exactly the same expression--"Inadequate,
Mittelstaedt, quite inadequate."
Mittelstaedt continues to upbraid him: "Look at Boettcher now,
there's a model for you to learn from."
I can hardly believe my eyes. Boettcher is there too, Boettcher, our
school porter. And he is a model! Kantorek shoots a glance at me as
if he would like to eat me. But I grin at him innocently, as though
I do not recognize him any more.
Nothing could look more ludicrous than his forage-cap and his
uniform. And this is the object before whom we used to stand in
anguish, as he sat up there enthroned at his desk, spearing at us
with his pencil for our mistakes in those irregular French verbs with
which afterwards we made so little headway in France. That is barely
two years ago--and now here stands Territorial Kantorek, the spell
quite broken, with bent knees, arms like pothooks, unpolished buttons
and that ludicrous rig-out--an impossible soldier. I cannot
reconcile this with the menacing figure at the schoolmaster's desk.
I wonder what I, the old soldier, would do if this skin full of woe
ever dared to say to me again: "Bäumer, give the imperfect of
'aller.'"
Then Mittelstaedt makes them practice skirmishing, and as a favour
appoints Kantorek squad leader.
Now in skirmishing the squad leader has always to keep twenty paces
in front of his squad; if the order comes "On the march, about turn,"
the line of skirmishers simply turns about, but the squad leader, who
now finds himself suddenly twenty paces in rear of the line, has to
rush up at the double and take his position again twenty paces in
front of the squad. That makes altogether forty paces double-march.
But no sooner has he arrived than the order "On the march, about
turn," comes again and he once more has to race at top speed another
forty paces to the other side. In this way the squad has made merely
the turn-about and a couple of paces while the squad-leader dashes
backwards and forwards like a fart on a curtain pole. That is one of
Himmelstoss' well-worn recipes.
Kantorek can hardly expect anything else from Mittelstaedt, for he
once messed up the latter's chance of promotion, and Mittelstaedt
would be a big fool not to make the best of such a good opportunity
as this, before he goes back to the front again. A man might well
die easier after the army has given him just one such stroke of luck.
In the meantime Kantorek is dashing up and down like a wild-boar.
After a while Mittelstaedt stops the skirmish and begins the very
important exercise of creeping.
On hands and knees, carrying his gun in regulation fashion, Kantorek
shoves his absurd figure over the sand immediately in front of us.
He is breathing hard, and his panting is music.
Mittelstaedt encourages Kantorek the Territorial with quotations from
Kantorek the schoolmaster. "Territorial Kantorek, we have the good
fortune to live in a great age, we must all humble ourselves and for
once put aside bitterness."
Kantorek sweats and spits out a dirty piece of wood that has lodged
in his teeth.
Mittelstaedt stoops down and says reproachfully: "And in the trifles
never lose sight of the great adventure, Territorial Kantorek!"
It amazes me that Kantorek does not explode with a bang, especially
when, during physical exercises, Mittelstaedt copies him to
perfection, seizing him by the seat of his trousers as he is climbing
along the horizontal bar, so that he can just raise his chin above
the beam, and then starts to give him good advice. That is exactly
what Kantorek used to do to him at school.
The extra fatigues are next detailed off. "Kantorek and Boettcher,
bread fatigue! Take the handcart with you."
In a couple of minutes the two set off together pushing the barrow.
Kantorek in a fury walks with his head down. But the porter is
delighted to have scored light duty.
The bakehouse is away at the other end of the town, and the two must
go there and back through the whole length of it.
"They've done that a couple of times already," grins Mittelstaedt.
"There are still a few people waiting to see them."
"Excellent," I say, "but hasn't he reported you yet?"
"He did try. Our C.O. laughed like the deuce when he heard the
story. He hasn't any time for schoolmasters. Besides, I'm sweet
with his daughter."
"He'll mess up the examination for you."
"I don't care," says Mittelstaedt calmly. "Besides, his complaint
came to nothing because I could show that he had had hardly anything
but light duty."
"Couldn't you polish him up a bit?" I ask.
"He's too stupid, I couldn't be bothered," answers Mittelstaedt
contemptuously.
* *
What is leave?--A pause that only makes everything after it so much
worse. Already the sense of parting begins to intrude itself. My
mother watches me silently,--I know she counts the days;--every
morning she is sad. It is one day less. She has put away my pack,
she does not want to be reminded by it.
The hours pass quickly if a man broods. I pull myself together, and
go with my sister to the butcher's to get a pound of bones. That is
a great luxury and people line up early in the morning and stand
waiting. Many of them faint.
We have no luck. After waiting by turns for three hours the queue
disperses. The bones have not lasted out.
It is a good thing I get my rations. I bring them to my mother and
in that way we all get something decent to eat.
The days grow ever more strained and my mother's eyes more sorrowful.
Four days left now. I must go and see Kemmerich's mother.
* *
I cannot write that down. This quaking, sobbing woman who shakes me
and cries out on me: "Why are you living then, when he is dead?"--who
drowns me in tears and calls out: "What are you there for at all,
child, when you----"--who drops into a chair and wails: "Did you see
him? Did you see him then? How did he die?"
I tell her he was shot through the heart and died instantaneously.
She looks at me, she doubts me: "You lie. I know better. I have
felt how terribly he died. I have heard his voice at night, I have
felt his anguish--tell the truth, I want to know it, I must know it."
"No," I say, "I was beside him. He died at once."
She pleads with me gently: "Tell me. You must tell me. I know you
want to comfort me, but don't you see, you torment me far more than
if you told me the truth? I cannot bear the uncertainty. Tell me
how it was and even though it will be terrible, it will be far better
than what I have to think if you don't."
I will never tell her, she can make mincemeat out of me first. I
console her, but she strikes me as rather stupid all the same. Why
doesn't she stop worrying? Kemmerich will stay dead whether she
knows about it or not. When a man has seen so many dead he cannot
understand any longer why there should be so much anguish over a
single individual. So I say rather impatiently: "He died
immediately. He felt absolutely nothing at all. His face was quite
calm."
She is silent. Then she says slowly: "Will you swear it?"
"Yes."
"By everything that is sacred to you?"
Good God, what is there that is sacred to me?--such things change
pretty quickly with us.
"Yes, he died at once."
"Are you willing never to come back yourself, if it isn't true?"
"May I never come back if he wasn't killed instantaneously."
I would swear to anything. But she seems to believe me. She moans
and weeps steadily. I have to tell how it happened so I invent a
story and I almost believe it myself.
As I leave she kisses me and gives me a picture of him. In his
recruit's uniform he leans on a round rustic table with legs made of
birch branches. Behind him a wood is painted on a curtain, and on
the table stands a mug of beer.
* *
It is the last evening at home. Everyone is silent. I go to bed
early, I seize the pillow, press it against myself and bury my head
in it. Who knows if I will ever lie in a feather bed again?
Late in the night my mother comes into my room. She thinks I am
asleep, and I pretend to be so. To talk, to stay awake with one
another, it is too hard.
She sits long into the night although she is in pain and often
writhes. At last I can bear it no longer, and pretend I have just
wakened up.
"Go and sleep, mother, you will catch cold here."
"I can sleep enough later," she says.
I sit up. "I don't go straight back to the front, mother. I have to
do four weeks at the training camp. I may come over from there one
Sunday, perhaps."
She is silent. Then she asks gently: "Are you very much afraid?"
"No, mother."
"I would like to tell you to be on your guard against the women out
in France. They are no good."
Ah! Mother, Mother! You still think I am a child--why can I not put
my head in your lap and weep? Why have I always to be strong and
self-controlled? I would like to weep and be comforted, too, indeed
I am little more than a child; in the wardrobe still hang my short,
boy's trousers--it is such a little time ago, why is it over?
"Where we are there aren't any women, mother," I say as calmly as I
can.
"And be very careful at the front, Paul."
Ah, Mother, Mother! Why do I not take you in my arms and die with
you. What poor wretches we are!
"Yes, mother, I will."
"I will pray for you every day, Paul."
Ah! Mother, Mother! Let us rise up and go out, back through the
years, where the burden of all this misery lies on us no more, back
to you and me alone, Mother!
"Perhaps you can get a job that is not so dangerous."
"Yes, mother, perhaps I can get into the cook-house, that can easily
be done."
"You do it then, and if the others say anything----"
"That won't worry me, mother----"
She sighs. Her face is a white gleam in the darkness.
"Now you must go to sleep, mother."
She does not reply. I get up and wrap my cover round her shoulders.
She supports herself on my arm, she is in pain. And so I take her to
her room. I stay with her a little while.
"And you must get well again, mother, before I come back."
"Yes, yes, my child."
"You ought not to send your things to me, mother. We have plenty to
eat out there. You can make much better use of them here."
How destitute she lies there in her bed, she, that loves me more than
all the world. As I am about to leave, she says hastily: "I have two
pairs of under-pants for you. They are all wool. They will keep you
warm. You must not forget to put them in your pack."
Ah! Mother! I know what these underpants have cost you in waiting,
and walking, and begging! Ah! Mother, Mother! how can it be that I
must part from you? Who else is there that has any claim on me but
you. Here I sit and there you are lying, and we have so much to say,
that we could never say it.
"Good-night, mother."
"Good-night, my child."
The room is dark. I hear my mother's breathing, and the ticking of
the clock. Outside the window the wind blows and the chestnut trees
rustle.
On the landing I stumble over my pack which lies there already made
up, because I have to leave early in the morning.
I bite into my pillow. I grasp the iron rods of my bed with my
fists. I ought never to have come here. Out there I was indifferent
and often hopeless;--I will never be able to be so again. I was a
soldier, and now I am nothing but an agony for myself, for my mother,
for everything that is so comfortless and without end.
I ought never to have come on leave.