Outside Verdun

by Zweig, Arnold; Rintoul, Fiona;

  ‘Do you understand what that means, my son?’ said Lebehde. ‘Apparently, Herr Kroysing doesn’t want to hand over any items with the name Kroysing on them to our field post and censors. People get suspicious when they have time on their hands.’

  Süßmann said that Lieutenant Kroysing would express his gratitude to Bertin in due course. ‘He may be an old devil but my lieutenant is the most decent man in the world. He wouldn’t even take a pipeful of tobacco from you without giving you something in return,’ he said, adding that he, Süßmann, would be getting his staff sergeant’s sword knot on the Kaiser’s birthday and probably some ribbons in his buttonhole too – all thanks to Kroysing. And at that he pulled two largish packages out of his haversack, a flat one and a soft, round one, and said they contained Christoph Kroysing’s last effects.

  ‘I don’t mind saying that made me feel a bit funny,’ said Karl Lebehde. ‘A bit horrible. Wee Sergeant Kroysing spent every day and every night of his last months at Chambrettes-Ferme. It was down on the valley floor, if you remember, over to the right where those two long goose-neck guns were dragged away – French guns or something like that – that Bertin promised to forward his letter. And now up pops Süßmann, waving Kroysing’s old gear around and wanting to bother Bertin again, although it’s perfectly clear that it’s an ill wind that blows nobody any good. But I’m a polite man and so of course I didn’t say no and I took the things…’

  ‘Where are they?’ asked Pahl.

  ‘Don’t get carried away and break a leg, Wilhelm. No sooner had the boy left than I started to ask myself what you would have done.’

  ‘Kept my hands off it.’

  ‘Why?’

  Wilhelm Pahl pressed his chin to his chest and looked his friend in the eye. ‘Because Bertin shouldn’t be messing around with lieutenants the whole time. Because he takes every chance he gets to do something stupid.’

  ‘Well, here’s what I finally realised: every sausage must come to an end, and this sausage has gone on long enough. What good would the stuff in those packages do anyone? It won’t help the parents. It’ll only set their waterworks off. I can still hear the howls of an old woman I witnessed in a similar situation back in 1914. And the good people of Nuremberg won’t be any the poorer either if the stuff disappears. Army postal package gone astray – that’s that. Is it right to bolster people’s prejudices by letting them think that all they have to do is ask someone to do something, and they’ll suspend their judgement and become their postman? So I crawled down into the dugout in the old cellar at Chambrettes-Ferme. The rain had seeped in and soaked all the muck in there. It stank, Wilhelm – I take my hat off to the gunners who had to crawl about under there. And as I picked my way through the muck, I saw two eyes. Of course, I thought of young Kroysing, but only in a joking way, because I was at the back of the queue when superstitious natures were being given out. As surely as I’ve ever propped up a bar, there was a cat sitting on the upper bunk glaring at me. I checked with my torch and I was right. A great grey-striped she-cat was living there and she was either fat on rats or pregnant. Listen, kid, I said to her, just don’t make a fuss and look after this little lot for me, okay, and I shoved the soft package between the palliasse and the wall. When I was above ground again, I gulped the air down. So, now tell me: did I do the right thing?’

  ‘You did,’ said Wilhelm Pahl.

  ‘But what about the papers? Shouldn’t our post orderly perhaps…?’

  Wilhelm Pahl bit his lower lip. ‘No, we’ll sort it out another way, Karl. The day after tomorrow 10 family men are going on Christmas leave.’

  ‘Goodness me. Is it that time already? Maybe peace will break out while they’re at home, and they won’t be able to get back and they’ll die from missing you and me.’

  Wilhelm Pahl ignored this joke. ‘Among them is Comrade Naumann Bruno. He’s conscientious and he’ll stick the letter in the postbox at Montmédy train station. Then he’ll go on his way, and no one will know where it came from.’

  Karl Lebehde reached his freckled hand out to his friend in solemn silence. ‘Done,’ he said. ‘But let’s do it straight away.’

  In Naumann Bruno’s barbershop (everyone put the barber’s first name after his last to distinguish him from Naumann Ignaz, the company idiot), it was quiet, warm and light, and smelt of almond soap. On a chair sat Sergeant Karde, who’d just had his hair cut. This Leipzig bookseller, whose small publishing house currently lay idle, and who was no doubt worried about his wife and children just as the workers did, enjoyed considerable respect among discerning members of the rank and file because of his sincere, humane attitude, although politically he was closer to their opponents, the ‘German Nationals’ as they were called. As the two men walked in, Karl Lebehde cracked a couple of jokes, and Karde laughed while admiring his haircut in two mirrors. Lebehde sat down for a shave, and Karde put his belt back on, counted out 20 Pfennigs, saluted and left.

  ‘Close the door, Bruno,’ said Lebehde as if that were a normal thing to do. ‘I’d like to give you some concrete proof of my faith in you, and I want you to put it in the postbox at Montmédy station the day after tomorrow. I’m going to put it here in your drawer. And now show Comrade Pahl the letter from your old lady and the bit of newspaper she wrapped the badger hair brush in that she sent you. Because, in case you hadn’t noticed, Wilhelm,’ he said to the astonished Pahl, ‘surprises, like trams, always come in twos, and I’ve been holding on to this one for a day or two.’

  The barber’s round, ruddy face twitched though he didn’t for one moment doubt Pahl’s reliability. He wasn’t nicknamed Liebknecht for nothing. ‘The old girl takes too many chances. I go to burn this scrap of paper every evening, and every morning I tell myself it would be a shame.’ He opened a decrepit cardboard box and took out a carefully folded letter and read from the middle of it in an undertone: ‘There’s a lot going on but not with me…’

  Pahl had sat there listening carefully and wondering why this harmless letter was being read out to him. He took it from Naumann’s hand. The barber silently bent over him and drew arcs with his shaving knife connecting two pairs of words to create the words that now formed on Pahl’s lips: ‘Zimmerwald’ and ‘Kiental’. Pahl looked up with a start. ‘Bloody hell!’ he said.

  Educated workers knew that the leaders of minority socialist groups from different countries had met that year and the previous year in the Swiss towns of Zimmerwald and Kiental – individuals and representatives of small groups who rejected their parties’ majority view in support of the war. Among their number had been the German member of parliament Georg Ledebour, an elderly man respected even by his political foes. The new passports had been introduced by then, and the two most dangerous malcontents, the MP Liebknecht and the writer Rosa Luxemburg, either weren’t allowed a visa or were already in prison. The meeting had already sent out an appeal to the workers of the world in 1915, saying that for them this world war was the brutal consequence of the economic tensions and conquering greed that were the very essence of the capitalist world order. German newspapers of all hues had mocked the Zimmerwalders’ obstinate refusal to face reality; all around Europe men battled for victory, something even the stupidest farm boy could understand, while these café intellectuals wafted through the storm giving lectures on why the difference between war and peace didn’t mean much to the workers. If the workers’ position vis-à-vis business was contemptible in peacetime, they said, the war only made it worse, because the fathers and sons of the working classes suffered each and every day, and so first and foremost, down with the war. ‘Tell that to the French!’ proclaimed the German papers. ‘Preach to the Germans!’ said the French. And soon the minor event to which Frau Naumann had bravely alluded was engulfed in silence. Fingers quivering, Naumann the barber now opened the drawer in the table where he kept his razors. It was lined with old newspapers. He took out a small sheet. It was slightly yellowed, highly inconspicuous and had been screwed up and flattened out again. P
ahl read it:

  ‘Where is the prosperity you were promised at the start of the war? The real consequences of this war are already all too apparent: misery and deprivation, unemployment and death, malnourishment and disease. For years, for decades, the costs of this war will sap nations’ strength and destroy the hard-won achievements that have given your lives greater dignity. Spiritual and moral desolation, economic catastrophe and reactionary politics – those are the blessings brought by this disgusting international wrestling match, as with all those that went before…’

  Pahl’s face went grey. His ugly features shone with emotion and he felt for his heart. Somewhere in the world, in free Switzerland, it was possible to think, say and print these things. Mankind was not entirely sunk in darkness. A tiny glimmer of truth still shone somewhere… Naumann, fascinated against his better judgement, had read the lines too over Pahl’s shoulder. ‘Hey, hurry up,’ he said, starting suddenly, ‘someone could come by at any minute.’

  Lebehde silently tucked a towel into the neck of his jumper and wet his face. ‘Let him read it by himself, razor hands,’ he said. ‘We know what it says.’

  Naumann went over to him, soaped him up and said to Pahl: ‘We must be mad. Close the drawer. Open the door and read it to yourself. Put it in the army newspaper.’

  Pahl did so. The dangerous piece of paper covered the journalist Edmund Goldwasser’s report about the crown princess’s gracious visit to the Cecilia Hospital at Potsdam. He read: ‘In this intolerable position…’ He saw them sitting round the table, these representatives of the suffering nations, their brows furrowed, their faces clouded in thought, as they discussed the declaration of war for which they were prepared to go to prison. They declared war on hatred among nations, on all forms of national madness, on all those trying to prolong the war, and called for an alliance across borders, for mutual assistance among the oppressed classes. They pledged to take up the fight for peace – a peace that renounced any violation of the people’s rights and freedoms. The unshakeable foundation of their demand was the right to national self-determination, and they called on the subject classes to rescue civilisation and fight for the sacred goals of socialism in the implacable class struggle – their true purpose – with the same total fearlessness they had displayed since the outbreak of war in fighting each other.

  Outside, someone was meticulously cleaning his boots, having evidently stepped off the boardwalk that made it possible to negotiate the camp into the reddish brown clabber underneath. Pahl calmly folded up the piece of newspaper and clamped it under his arm. ‘Let me take it,’ he said to Naumann. ‘I’ll look after it.’

  ‘You’re welcome to it,’ he replied. ‘I’ll be glad to see the back of it.’

  The door opened and in came Sergeant Kropp, disgruntled to see two men ahead of him in the queue. But Pahl the typesetter kindly offered to come back later, saying that he had more time than the sergeant and tomorrow was another day. ‘You’ll find your own way back, Karl,’ he said and left. Outside he stopped, closed his eyes and breathed. He had heard a call and understood it. The stars might be covered in cloud but they were still up there. And as sure as there were stars in the sky, the triumph of reason advanced behind the struggling working classes, and the welfare of nations, understood properly, was inextricably linked to that struggle. Yes, it was time to act. If by any chance the orderly room had been telling the truth when it had reported that industrial companies at home could no longer claim men fit for service, then he would have to offer a little sacrifice and make himself unfit for service. A couple of toes or a finger – carried out with the utmost care of course on account of military prison… The laws of the ruling classes had a thousand eyes, but intelligence had more – and it had wings. Warmth flooded into him from the newspaper clipping, which he had pressed against his heart. He would have liked to dance, shout, sing: ‘So Comrades, come rally…’

  When Karl Lebehde returned to the barracks a little later, smoothly shaved, he grinned and said that ass Kropp had only wanted his hair cut so he could make a good impression on the company commander the following afternoon when he brought Bertin in for punishment. Man’s stupidity was bottomless and its subtle variations were a constant source of amazement.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ‘Write!’

  THINGS NOW TOOK on the hyper-reality of a fantasy, the solid outlines and soft, fluid forms. Unrest was in the air when two small groups of sinners were lined up outside Acting Lieutenant Graßnick’s hut after lunch. On the left was Sergeant Kropp with his closely cropped hair and Private Bertin, whose platoon leader, Sergeant Schwerdtlein, was planted next to him in case a character witness should be required. On the right was Sergeant Böhne, whose friend Näglein had pulled the prank of reporting two shirkers from his platoon. The deaf carpenter Karsch and little Vehse the upholsterer had sloped off into a dugout when fetching ammunition to avoid exploding shells and hadn’t rejoined their comrades until the march back. It was the second time Karsch had done this. He had an incurable fear of those wild iron birds that ripped into men’s bowels with a deafening crash. Böhne moved restlessly from one foot to the other, twirled his moustache and fumed inwardly at Näglein, who had thrown his weight around by making a report rather than letting him, Böhne, deal with the matter.

  There were rumblings on the horizon all around the camp. But the disturbances were no longer coming from German guns – enemy explosions had taken their place. Something was up – nobody suspected what. It would have been a wise moment to remember the old proverb that eating stimulates the appetite. The French were thinking of replying to the Kaiser’s peace offer with the spears of their bayonets. As they were much better off in terms of ammunition and relative troop numbers than eight weeks previously, they fully expected to reach their goal – a line running from Pepper ridge through Chambrettes-Ferme to Bezonaux, that short front right across the Meuse heights, whose advantages certain gentlemen in Pierrepont belonging to the German General Staff would learn to appreciate. The attack rolled forward slowly; when it peaked the men in the barracks and among the ammunition dumps might notice something. Until then, profound peace reigned.

  It must have been 2.30pm when Lieutenant Graßnick appeared in the door of his well-appointed hut, which was protected by a grey waterproof tarpaulin. Bertin studied him calmly, the warm fur waistcoat under his open tunic, which the deft company tailor Krawietz had turned out for him for next to nothing, the fashionably cut britches, the high-peaked cap, the monocle set in his fat, red face. A sideways glance and a little contented smirk revealed that ‘Panje of Vranje’ was pleased to hear that Bertin was in trouble. In the doorway the broad chest and massive legs of the company commander’s bulldog also appeared, a solemn, tan-coloured beast with a white bib, which was hated because it consumed as much meat as two men, and which for that reason was never allowed to take a walk by itself in case it disappeared into a cooking pot. The acting lieutenant was in a sunny moody. Everyone knew that he was going on leave the day after next and staying away over New Year. And for that reason he gave the two truants a dressing-down in his rasping voice, accused them of betraying their comrades and only sentenced them to a hour’s punishment drill in full equipment instead of sending them straight to the cells. Böhne radiated relief. Bertin thought: now I’m curious. As Kropp stuttered out his report, Bertin opened his mouth to explain the circumstances, but with even more of a sideways smile Graßnick lifted his hand: ‘I know what you’re going to say. You’re not guilty of course. Three days’ solitary confinement. Dismissed!’

  Bertin swung round. After the officer had disappeared, Sergeant Schwerdtlein came up to him and said in a low voice, ‘You can complain, but only afterwards.’

  Bertin thanked him for his advice and said he would think about it. As he had to serve his time anyway, he needn’t decide whether to complain for a couple of days. Schwerdtlein walked off, shaking his head, unable to fathom either the unjust punishment or Bertin’s equanimity.


  In May or June, who knew when it had been, Bertin had done something stupid that he definitely wouldn’t do now. The acting lieutenant had deigned to play a game of chess with him, and Private Bertin had been unable to resist the temptation to put him in checkmate on his third move. He fully realised that this was against the world order but he couldn’t stop himself. This latest trick of the acting lieutenant’s had settled the account. Perhaps Graßnick thought it would be a hard blow but he was wrong. Bertin ranked the places he could be as follows: he’d rather be among the charred, wet trees of Fosses wood than in the throng of the company, and he’d rather be within the four walls of a cell than in Fosses wood.

  Having poured out of the depot, the ASC men from the loading parties were gathering, tired and damp, on the ridge around the camp. The Frogs had unleashed a terrifying bombardment on the right wing from Pepper ridge to Louvemont. Now their shells were exploding on the road to Ville, on Caures wood and on the ruins of Flabas. From the camp perimeter, ghostly clouds of earth could be seen rising up as columns of smoke formed above the exploding shells. The ASC men watched unperturbed. The guns couldn’t fire any further than they were doing at the moment. They’d never reach the depot and its 40,000 assorted shells.

  A guard locked Private Bertin in a cell with his coat and blankets, and he slept for 12 hours that evening almost without stirring. His nose stuck out sharply in his thin face, his lips were pressed in a bitter line and his small chin disappeared under his grey blanket; he had been freezing all night without noticing it; he had withdrawn into his inner life. When he awoke, his joints were stiff, but he was refreshed and in the mood for thinking. It was better to stay lying down for a bit, to freeze and think, reflect on who he was and where he was, than to get up, get washed and get involved in discussions. He was stuck here like a scrap of muck and any boot could tread on him. But if that boot belonged to the lowest of the low, then it was better to be a scrap of muck swarming with maggots in the shape of thoughts. We invite you, Herr Bertin, to turn your attention to yourself, said the cell walls, the locked lock, the hard plank bed, the pale morning light in the open sash window. The window had no glass, instead tarpaper was nailed to its frame. He would have had to get up and stand on the plank bed to prolong the welcome darkness and he didn’t feel like doing that. He didn’t intend to get up until he heard the clatter of coffee being fetched. He intended to use this spell in prison – this gift from the shabby gods who watched over white men at the end of 1916, this kind offering of injustice, revenge, cold and loneliness – to clear his head. He’d been blundering around like a carefree puppy up until now, sometimes endangering himself inadvertently, sometimes irritating others. It was time to wake up, time to keep a weather eye on the machinations of fate. Kroysing and Roggstroh had been right. This wasn’t the place for him. He’d have to change – how remained to be seen.