The Constant Soldier

by William Ryan

  79

  THE MAYOR appeared smaller now – as if his rage had reduced him. He appeared bewildered by the things he was seeing – the abandoned village, the column of refugees and all the other signs that the world he’d taken for granted was being washed away. He was surprisingly calm about the situation. They had been patrolling the road for an hour now and the mayor hadn’t arrested anyone, or shot them – as yet.

  ‘Brandt?’ The mayor’s voice was soft. Ahead of them the bridge, which had stood for hundreds of years, was missing two of its arches.

  ‘Herr Zugführer.’

  ‘Look what they’ve done to the bridge.’

  ‘We knew it must go.’

  ‘But no one asked me. Wouldn’t it be correct to ask the mayor if you’re going to destroy a village’s only bridge?’

  ‘They’re going to blow up the dam as well, Herr Zugführer.’

  ‘They should have asked. It would have been correct.’

  And when they did blow the dam, it would likely sweep half the village away. The town below would be flooded and God help any refugees still on the road beside it. And for what? It might slow the Russian tanks for a day or two on their way. But perhaps that would be time enough for his father and Ursula to get away.

  ‘There will be no retreat,’ the mayor said quietly, gesturing at the refugees. ‘What is needed here is order. Look at these people.’

  ‘Herr Zugführer.’ Brandt couldn’t help it if giving the mayor his military title always sounded ironic. ‘Would you like me to go to the top of the valley and find out what the situation is? If a stand is being made there, then perhaps the senior officer will have new orders for us.’

  The mayor looked at him for a moment, before nodding.

  ‘Yes,’ he said eventually. ‘Do that.’

  80

  NEUMANN walked down to the dam to see if they had news. The valley was silent – almost. No more planes had come, although he couldn’t help but scan the sky in case they returned. Wolf nudged him yet again.

  ‘All right. Find one, then.’

  Wolf bounded off into a clump of trees, returning with a snow-crusted stick held in his mouth. Neumann threw it and watched as the dog leapt over the low wall that separated the lane from the field that ran alongside it. Sprays of snow fountained up behind him as he hunted for it, his brown chest deep in white.

  It wasn’t until they were closer to the main road that he noticed the refugees had changed direction.

  ‘Which way are you going?’ he asked a mother and daughter whose cart came to a halt as he passed. They looked at his greatcoat and he could see their gaze take in the SS insignia. The mother looked away but Neumann thought he caught a glimpse of a bitter smile before she did so. The civilians were laughing at them now. Or were they smiling at the thought that justice was coming for them.

  ‘We were going to Breslau,’ the daughter said, looking over her shoulder. ‘But now they say we’ll be safest going over the pass to the Czech side.’

  The column started up again and the mother flicked the reins at the horse. An infant’s cry came from underneath the wagon’s tarpaulin. He felt the insistent nudging at his knee once again and looked down to see Wolf’s kindly eyes looking up at him.

  At the dam, there was no sign of Brandt or the mayor. Instead a platoon of grenadiers had arrived with two anti-tank guns. They were barring the crossing to the never-ending column of refugees, sending them up the valley road instead.

  ‘Why can’t they cross?’ he asked.

  The grenadier Leutnant shrugged his shoulders. He looked exhausted.

  ‘Orders. They can go across the reservoir if they want but the dam is for military traffic only. I don’t know why. Maybe reinforcements are coming up? If we have any reinforcements left, that is.’

  ‘But why are they coming up this road in the first place – I thought we were retreating towards Breslau.’

  ‘Breslau?’ The Leutnant shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t go towards Breslau. It’s tank country down there. We can hold them here along these hills but everything down that way will be overrun.’

  ‘Where are they now?’

  The Leutnant shook his head.

  ‘I don’t know – but we’ve been told to dig in, so they must be close.’

  ‘Did you see the village Volkssturm?’

  The Leutnant shrugged, and Neumann wondered what he meant by the gesture.

  ‘I sent them away. They’re no use to us. I don’t want the blood of children on my hands.’

  As he walked back towards the hut, Neumann wondered if Russians had already reached the camp. There had been no time to destroy it, of course. Nausea threatened to overwhelm him. He looked down across the valley and saw scattered figures walking across the reservoir – some of them dragging small carts.

  One of the walkers suddenly disappeared through the ice. No one went to help them, or even seemed to notice.

  81

  AGNETA examined Brandt. He was facing the women, a line of small brown canvas bags – five of them – rested on the long kitchen table standing between them. It was as if some of the colour had been washed out of him – leaving him greyer and less substantial. He looked exhausted. The bags were worn and well used, each fastened at the top with cord. He pushed at one of them with his hand, lifting his gaze to meet Agneta’s.

  ‘Obersturmführer Neumann has asked me to prepare provisions for a journey,’ he said. ‘Your journey. To another camp. In the west.’

  Someone began to sob. Agneta didn’t look to see who it was. It didn’t matter. Brandt’s gaze had fallen back down to the canvas bags. All that mattered was that he’d failed them – failed her. She could see it in his pale, battered face. And now he thought he could make up for his failure with scraps of food? She’d been a fool to trust him.

  ‘There’s bread, some cheese, oat biscuits, carrots and cooked potatoes.’

  Agneta took a step forward, impatient, but Brandt held up a hand.

  ‘The guards will take you to the mining camp in one hour. From there you walk to the west. I don’t know where to or for how long but this food may have to last you for some time. Conserve it.’ His eyes met Agneta’s once again. ‘The war is nearly over. Don’t lose hope. Things can change in an instant for the better.’

  He took a step backwards. The women hesitated, until Agneta stepped forward and reached for the bag that looked as though it had the most in it. She would not lose hope. She had lasted this long – she planned to last longer still.

  Brandt went to each of them, taking their hands, wishing them well. She saw their gratitude and it angered her.

  Soon it was Agneta’s turn.

  ‘I’ll see you soon, I hope,’ he said.

  She felt calm, in control of her emotions. She nodded politely, as if saying farewell to an acquaintance she’d met by chance, and when he took her hand she let it lie limp in his. As he turned away, she saw him wipe his hand on his tunic, as if to wipe away her anger. He’d understood her.

  And yet, when he left the room, she felt her mouth curling downward, her eyes filling. She tried to overcome the emotion, angry with herself now. She wouldn’t cry over this half man. She placed the bag of food on the counter beside the sink and poured herself a glass of water to wash her mouth clean of the taste of despair. She looked around at the others. They’d known since the SS women’s departure the day before that the hut must be closing – but, even so, they appeared stunned.

  ‘So we’ll have a long walk,’ she said. ‘It’s not so bad. We’ll stick together. We’ll look after each other. We’ve made it this far.’

  She hadn’t meant to say anything – but it was true, they would be stronger together. And if they were going with the prisoners from the mining camp, they might be the only women on the march. If they wanted to hold on to their food, they’d need to protect it.

  ‘We have an hour,’ Katerina said. ‘And we have things we need to do – there’s no point in looking for trouble.’
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br />   No one said anything – they got back to work. It was easier not to think about the future when you had something to do. When the guards came for them they put on the winter jackets that would mark them out among the other prisoners, but which might also save them from freezing.

  ‘Stand in line.’ The young blonde, Adamik, was the one giving the orders now that Bobrik was dead. The afternoon was coming to an end – it was almost dark now and the long shadows were beginning to merge into each other. Somewhere, overhead, aeroplanes flew and the guards looked up, squinting their eyes as if they might see them. Many aeroplanes.

  Brandt was standing by his wagon, and raised a hand in farewell – to whom it wasn’t clear but Adamik lifted his in return. A look passed between the two men, she was sure of it – but it was dark and she could make nothing of it. Did Brandt know their fate? She tried to decipher the way he turned away, the way he held himself. If they were safe until the mining camp, there was no point in risking anything. But if they wouldn’t reach the mining camp – then even the smallest chance was worth taking. She watched as Brandt released the wagon’s brake and set off towards the open gate – guarded now by two Volkssturm boys. As he went down the lane, the horses broke into a trot. Why was he in such a rush? Did he want to be far away when the guards took them into the forest?

  ‘Here comes Neumann,’ one of the guards said.

  ‘Look at him,’ Adamik said. There was contempt in their voices.

  Neumann came down the steps – a slow descent, his boots seeking out a firm footing on each step’s surface.

  ‘Well, gentlemen?’ he said, pausing to draw on his cigarette. ‘Form a line, pretend you were once soldiers. Come to attention if you can summon the energy.’

  The guards did as they were told – reluctantly. Neumann walked in front of them, examining each man in turn before circling behind them and coming to a halt – the guards to one side, the prisoners to the other. The guards wore scarves under their helmets and under their greatcoats, thick woollen gloves on their hands. They looked irritated at the delay. Neumann, on the other hand, looked relaxed. If he was aware of the prisoners’ anxiety or the guards’ anger he showed no sign of it. He looked up at the blue-black sky, at the last trace of light as it moved down below the horizon. He smoked his cigarette. The resentment from the guards at being made to wait in the cold was palpable.

  ‘Time to go, gentlemen,’ he said, when it was finished. ‘I wish you luck.’ He glanced towards the prisoners. ‘All of you.’

  The guards gave a half-hearted salute and turned towards the gate, Adamik gesturing the women to lead the way. The two Volkssturm boys standing beside the guardhouse stepped back to make way for them. Agneta wanted to look back to see if Neumann was still standing where they’d left him, watching them as they marched down the snow-packed lane, but she didn’t.

  She kept her eyes on the road ahead.

  82

  THE MINING CAMP was further up the valley and so they followed the main road that led along the side of the reservoir, walking away from the dam. The guards soon fell back and began to talk in low voices amongst themselves.

  ‘What do you think?’

  Joanna’s question was barely a whisper, but Agneta heard it clearly enough. It was the same question she was asking herself.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘They gave us food.’

  ‘That could mean nothing. A trick.’

  ‘Who wastes food? It must mean something.’

  ‘Brandt might have been responsible for it. Maybe he persuaded the SS. I don’t know.’

  ‘Quiet,’ one of the SS men said loudly from almost next to them. Had he overheard their conversation? Joanna moved slowly in one direction and Agneta moved in the other until they were soon a couple of metres apart and no longer capable of discussion. It had been foolish. She should have ignored Joanna.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ the SS man said in a quiet voice. ‘You’re going to be taken care of.’

  He spoke in German, but his accent was thick and she couldn’t be certain if the ambiguity was deliberate. She risked a sideways glance – but she couldn’t see his face clearly in the evening gloom.

  They were walking alongside German refugees – mostly women, like them. She felt their eyes on them – the five prisoners walking in front of the SS men – their striped prison caps, the dirty quilted jackets, the striped prison trousers and their battered wooden clogs, the rags that bound their feet inside them already wet and cold. She couldn’t help herself – she couldn’t stop the hatred she felt for them almost overwhelming her. She had nothing to be ashamed of, no matter what they might think. It was them, the fat women in the wagons, the plump children who sat beside them – they were the ones who should feel shame. Their silence had brought them to this. Nothing she had done.

  Somewhere up ahead there was the sound of a pistol shot followed a few moments later by another. The guard who was walking beside them unslung his rifle. Another SS man came forward and joined the one who now carried his rifle under his arm, his gloved finger inside the trigger guard. They lifted themselves onto the toes of their boots, straining to look over the refugees towards where the sound of gunfire had come from. Soon they were fifty metres ahead and extending their lead.

  ‘Close together, close together,’ a guard said from behind them. ‘Don’t do anything stupid.’

  There was a shout from ahead. A man’s voice. The two SS guards who had gone on ahead had stopped, their rifles held at the ready. There was a commotion of some sort and Agneta heard the sound of a woman screaming – not in fear, but in grief. The SS men seemed to relax and waved them forward.

  They found a group of men standing beside a bonfire, their hands held up in the air. A youngster, his narrow face poking out from his greatcoat collar, watched over them. The boy’s expression was hard to read in the flickering firelight, but she’d the sense that he was on the point of tears. The men stood still, their mouths open as if about to speak – their faces red in the fire’s glow, their cheeks hollow and their eyes black.

  A body lay on the ground behind the boy with the rifle – a dead man lying on his side as if asleep, blood turning the snow around him a wet pink. A woman in a black overcoat knelt beside him, cradling his head in her hands, her face wet with tears. The mayor stood above her, replacing his pistol into its holster. His expression as he looked down at the body suggested that things had taken an unexpected turn which he couldn’t quite explain.

  If the mayor saw the prisoners and their SS guards he didn’t acknowledge them, and they kept on walking. Agneta saw the silver edge of an Iron Cross on the dead man’s chest – perhaps he had thought it would protect him. On the other side of the road, the refugees avoided looking at the woman or the dead man in her arms, or the mayor, or the men beside the bonfire. As for the SS and the prisoners, they might have been ghosts. The guards spoke amongst themselves in their own language. Their dark, dry laughter sounded like a commentary.

  ‘Will we spend the night at the mining camp?’ Rachel whispered when they had passed through the checkpoint. ‘Or will they march us out straight away?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Here,’ the guard who’d told them not to worry called from up ahead. He stood where a narrow lane led off to the left.

  ‘Two hundred metres in,’ Adamik spoke in a low voice, in German, as if quoting someone. Agneta could hear the tension in his voice. When the guards reached the lane they stood for a moment in a half circle.

  ‘Well,’ Adamik said, unslinging his rifle from his shoulder – the other SS following suit. ‘Let’s be careful how we do this.’

  Agneta caught the sympathetic gaze of a pretty girl – about fifteen years old – on a passing wagon. She discounted it. If it wasn’t false, it was futile. The girl could do nothing. She would only watch while the SS took them into the trees. She might cry if she heard shots but she would do – could do – nothing to help them. Agneta held the girl’s gaze until one
of the guards pushed her towards the laneway with his rifle. She wanted her to remember the moment, at least.

  The wooden clogs on her feet had never felt so heavy – each step like walking through mud. The snow seemed to be sucking at her, pulling her down into the earth. She knew she must run, that the SS would shoot them now, but whatever waited for them along the narrow lane was like a magnet that couldn’t be resisted. She was cold and tired. Beside her Joanna was whispering. She tried to hear her but the thud, thud, thud of her heart was all that filled her ears. It was hard to breathe – the cold air was thick in her mouth.

  Milky moonlight broke through the trees and she saw that the Bible students, three paces in front of her, were holding each other’s hands. Without thinking, she reached out for Joanna, finding her elbow and following her forearm down until their fingers interlinked – taking solace from the fierce strength of her grip. She reached out for Rachel on her other side and clasped her narrow hand tight. They walked along the lane, the three of them, like little girls afraid of the dark – the only noise the sound of their clogs squeaking into fresh snow.

  Adamik stopped, holding up his hand for them to stay where they were. He walked on, slowly – a hunter’s considered advance – careful how he placed his feet. He stopped again, listening for a moment, before motioning them to follow. Now they could see how the road widened and how the forest had been cleared around a weathered shrine, its wooden-tiled peaked roof, sagging with age, carrying a cross. Perhaps there was a graveyard there. Perhaps their grave was already dug.

  ‘There it is,’ one of the Ukrainians said.

  Adamik turned, gesturing them to follow him. He was more confident now.

  ‘Quickly,’ a guard said, so close behind Agneta that she braced herself for a blow. She shuffled forward, still holding on to the others’ hands, her mind too full to think. No blow fell.

  She could hear Katerina reciting a prayer. ‘Into the Valley of Death,’ Katerina was whispering and Agneta wanted to stop and shout at everyone. The whole situation was beyond ridiculous. Why couldn’t they all just go home? Why did any of this have to happen?