The Turncoat

by Siegfried Lenz

  * * *

  —

  Over on the other side, they still had no clue.

  Forty minutes!

  Those on the attacking side had submitted themselves to the hands of the clock, to those lean, pedantic functionaries of time. They had synchronized their watches.

  Forty minutes.

  Wait, be patient, obey. See how the dial records every second, authenticates, stamps, and signs it. One second of life, certified by the minute hand’s tiny movement. No drop of time falls outside the measuring cup, nothing gets lost. Time can never be outwitted.

  Twenty-one…twenty-two…twenty-three…

  Time—what is it? A jackdaw that nests in the old tower clock? A cock with red-rimmed, angry eyes?

  A patient, turbid river?

  Proska pulled out his pocket watch.

  He reflected: When the shell goes in over there, jump up. Thirty steps down to the stream, spring over it, hit the dirt. After the shell explodes, they’ll stick their heads and their weapons up over the edge of their trench. Empty a magazine, rapid fire, get up, move forward. Stay calm. On the slope, get down again. No cover. Play dead. If no farther advance is possible, lie there like a corpse, don’t move.

  “How much longer?” Wolfgang asked.

  “Twenty-five minutes.”

  Such minutes have to be endured individually; they’re minutes when men are cruelly alone; expelled from the musty cellar of collectivity, they think only for themselves. Suddenly, everyone would like to have a watch, they’d like to keep an eye on the dial as the hands go about their business; they’d like to count along, to be certain the watch isn’t fooling them. The minute hand plays on their nerves; they urge it on: faster, faster. But that makes no impression on you. You’re incorruptible. I can offer you whatever I want. You have no nerves. You don’t go slower, you don’t go faster. Hellish calm.

  “Wolfgang?”

  “What?”

  “If we get stopped, I’m going to throw myself down and play dead. As long as it’s daylight, we won’t get out of this valley alive.”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you cold?”

  “Yes.”

  “You see that peninsula over there? We used to call it Wittko.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Beyond Wittko is Sybba, and Sybba’s where my brother-in-law and my sister Maria live.”

  “Ah.”

  Sixteen minutes.

  The snow glistened bluishly. The oblivious sun pulled up over the horizon.

  From time to time, there was some isolated, irregular shooting from the troops on the other side, who fired as though trying to distract themselves. Proska laid his pocket watch on the edge of the trench.

  “Do you plan to leave it there?” Wolfgang asked.

  “Yes, but only for fifteen minutes.”

  “And then?”

  “Then I’ll put it back in my pocket.”

  …

  Five minutes.

  The men were silent, waiting for the liberating signal, the firing of the first shell, the first impact. Then they would heave themselves up off the ground, a short, powerful thrust, and charge down the slope, trampling the still-unscathed snow cover. They closed their eyes, ground their teeth, felt that no one could help them, that they were alone. Proska watched the small patch of snow he was breathing on start to melt. The shimmering, frozen surface grew loose, brittle, sank deeper and deeper with each exhalation, and finally caved in.

  Propelled by the long-awaited and yet surprisingly sudden artillery onslaught, the men leaped up and looked over at the opposing line of trenches, where snow, frozen chunks of earth, and pieces of wood were spinning and plunging around as though in a whirlwind. They opened their mouths, and their cries exploded amid the exploding shells, which were now landing in quick succession.

  Proska jumped over a frozen brook. He rammed a fresh magazine into his rifle and emptied it into the parapet of the trench. Then he snatched two egg-shaped hand grenades from his bag, shifted his weight to one leg, and prepared to advance. As in a fever, he saw the man who had been the first to climb the slope wildly firing his submachine gun in all directions. Suddenly, the man dropped his gun, clutched at his chest with both hands, collapsed, and rolled back down the incline, rolled down to Proska’s feet. The assistant tripped over him and fell headlong to the ground.

  Go on, go on, don’t stay on the ground, you could be forgotten, go on, forward. Why do you have eyes in the front of your head, Proska? Two hand grenades, one at a time, index finger in the pull-ring, turn, yank. One fast, one slow, the second hand will not be influenced as it moves around the dial. Conform to the unit’s tempo. Someone’s lying next to me, red snow where he collapsed, line of red drops, treasure hunt, Maria, his face is still warm, Wolfgang’s letter.

  Proska heard a groan. It came from the man he’d stumbled over. He crawled to him and lay close beside him. He could feel the warmth in the fallen man’s body.

  “Where are you hit?”

  The wounded man remained silent.

  Proska poked him in the thigh and repeated, “Where are you hit, man? I’ll bring you to the rear.”

  He straightened up and looked around.

  The snow in front of him sprayed high in the air. Proska immediately threw himself down again. He couldn’t count the brown clumps that lay on the snow like big, fantastic molehills. He heard no more cries, and he knew that the strength he and the others had summoned up, the nervous torment they’d suffered during the long wait, had all been pointless and futile. The objective had not been reached. Otherwise he’d have been able to straighten up without bullets immediately striking the ground around him.

  Proska made a second attempt. His intention was to spring up and beat a retreat at top speed, without stopping until he reached safety. But when his back rose above the wounded man, Proska felt for a second as though he’d been scratched with the sharp lid of a tin can.

  * * *

  —

  The wounded man gasped for breath.

  “I can’t help you. How can I get you out of here? If I do so much as move—haven’t you noticed that they shoot at every movement? Play dead, lie still. If they counterattack, that won’t do any good either, we’ll just freeze to death here, you and me. Don’t keep groaning so much—they might hear you, and if they hear you, they’ll shoot, you understand? We have to play dead. I can’t help you…My God, there you go, groaning again. Be quiet, I tell you. Don’t be so careless. Swallow your pain and be quiet, otherwise…”

  Heavy gray clouds pushed their way in front of the sun. The sky looked as though it would start snowing soon. Proska carefully thrust each hand into its opposite sleeve and massaged his fingers. He turned his head to the side, hoping he’d be able to see his own trench. But he didn’t have enough of an angle.

  The wounded man lay on his back, babbling to himself.

  “Please be quiet,” Proska implored him.

  “Who…are…you?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “Tell me…your…name.”

  “Proska. Do you think knowing my name will relieve your pain?”

  “I’m…going…to die.”

  “When it gets dark, I’ll bring you back.”

  “When it gets dark…I’ll be…dead. Can’t you…carry me back…right away?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll…remember…your…name.”

  “If I stand up, they’ll see me and…”

  “Why…is it…so cold?”

  It cost the wounded man a great effort to force the words out.

  “I can’t give you my coat,” said Proska. “If I move, they’ll immediately start shooting.”

  “Who…will…shoot?”

  “Don’t ask so many questions. And lower your voice.”<
br />
  “I have…to know, Proska…when it starts…getting dark…I’ll be dead.”

  “Talking’s wearing you out. You have to be quiet so you can regain your strength.”

  “Do you…know…this area?”

  “Yes. I’m from around here.”

  “They got me…twice.” The wounded man groaned. “Proska?”

  “What do you want?”

  “What…time…is it?”

  “It must be about ten-thirty. I have a pocket watch, but I can’t take it out.”

  “Why…not?”

  “Because I’d have to move.”

  “You don’t…need to…be afraid…Proska…You can…go ahead…and move…you’re lying…behind me…If they…shoot…they’ll hit…me…Don’t you think…I make a good…bullet shield? Eh?”

  “Be quiet,” Proska ordered. “If you don’t settle down right now, I’ll settle you down.”

  The other began to babble something that Proska didn’t understand.

  After a while, the wounded soldier said, “You…you will…bring me back…won’t you?…You won’t…leave me…lying here?…You can’t…do that…I’m from Schmiedeberg…Do you…know Schmiedeberg?”

  “No,” said Proska.

  “My wife…still lives there…with our…Christel…She was four…at Christmas…she had to get…two presents…on December 24…one for her birthday…and one for—”

  The snow next to Proska sprayed high in the air.

  “Shut your mouth.”

  “What’s the matter?” the wounded man whimpered. He was in great pain.

  “They’re shooting at us,” said Proska.

  The wounded soldier whimpered and started begging again. “Can’t you…take out…your watch?”

  “Why should I? It’s ten-thirty. Don’t you understand me when I talk to you?”

  “Yes, but…I want…to know…the exact time.”

  “Why, for God’s sake?”

  “So I can…figure out…how long…I have…before night comes…When it’s here…I’ll be…dead.”

  * * *

  —

  Around noon, it snowed. Fat flakes tumbled down to earth and covered up the fantastic molehills. The wounded soldier murmured to himself. Proska thought he was humming a tune. Eventually, he grew silent and the thick flakes covered him. Proska felt the cold moving up his legs; his face, on the other hand, was hot and getting hotter. It seemed to him that his bodily warmth was retreating from the advancing cold and now concentrating in his face. His lips swelled, and the blood in his short forehead vein pulsed more rapidly. He was tired, and had he not been so painfully hungry, he would have fallen asleep, in spite of the danger that entailed. The shooting had stopped.

  Proska found that the layer of snow on his back was getting thicker and heavier, yet not so heavy that it could keep him from standing up. He thought about Wolfgang, about the letter he was carrying in his pocket, and about the wounded soldier, who hadn’t even turned over on his stomach when it began to snow. Proska also thought about tall Zwiczosbirski. Wanda too emerged from the shrouded consciousness of his memory, wearing her little green dress, the belt drawn tight around her hourglass waist. He imagined she was sitting on a wall close to him, and for several seconds, he seemed to be holding her hand. Proska was suddenly astonished to realize that he’d made no effort to write to her or at least to inquire as to what rules and possibilities applied to him in this regard, and he resolved to do that at his next opportunity. He scolded himself for not having done it sooner, for having been so negligent, for having left Wanda in uncertainty for such a long time.

  As night began to fall, Proska heard approaching footsteps.

  Two men, conversing.

  One of them said softly, “There must be two more over there.”

  The other replied, “Sometimes they just play dead and let themselves get buried in snow. They learned that from the Mongols. They can lie under snow without moving for twenty-four hours, and it doesn’t do them any harm.”

  “My bladder wouldn’t go along with the plan.”

  Proska held his breath. He could hear that the voices were directly above him. The footsteps stopped. He thought, If they find me now—the hand grenade—if they grab me—pull the ring—maybe they’ll just go away.

  He could sense the two men’s eyes on his back and felt a surge of warmth flooding into his legs.

  One of the men scraped the snow off the wounded man, who at that moment started whimpering.

  Proska had an urge to spring up, but he got control of himself and remained motionless.

  “This one’s still alive,” said one of the men in surprise.

  “Now…night…is falling…,” the wounded man babbled. “The dark…it’s here…”

  “He’s delirious,” the other man said.

  “We’ll bring him back.”

  “Him?”

  “We’re supposed to bring back everyone we find.”

  “Let’s put him out of his misery.”

  “You must be nuts. You can’t just shoot him. Put that pistol away! Now! We’re going to carry him to the rear. The man’s still alive.”

  “Pros-ka,” the wounded soldier groaned.

  “Did you understand what he said?” asked one of the men.

  “No idea,” the other one said. “Sounded like a name. Probably his.”

  “This is a turncoat.”

  “We’re bringing him back.”

  The two men bent over the wounded soldier; one grabbed his feet, the other lifted him by the shoulders. Then they went away, wobbling with their burden through the deep snow.

  Proska slowly raised his head. He drew up one leg and placed his hands under his chest. And then he slid over the frozen surface of the brook, rounded an unnaturally high hill under which the bodies of several men were apparently lying, and stopped to breathe only when he was already halfway up the slope to his own trench. His toes were tingling from having been frozen. I’ll rub them with snow when I get back, he thought.

  • THIRTEEN •

  When a burst of machine gun fire swept over their heads, they ducked down so far that their lips brushed the snow. A willow branch torn off by the bullets fell on Proska’s neck, and he flinched as though from the lash of a whip. Now even the earth was against them: four men had been gravely wounded during the night, not by gunfire or shell fragments, but by frozen clods of earth. Every impact sent up a fountain of snow that still hung in the air after the shrapnel had gone whistling by. The craters became smaller, more defined, the walls around the edges of the craters flatter.

  “Now!” Proska shouted. He jumped up, started running, charged through a stand of willow shrubs, panted as he dashed across an open space, and flung himself into a trench. Behind him, a muffled fall: Wolfgang. The bursting shells sprang after them, implacable and threatening.

  “Stay calm,” said Proska. “We’re practically there, only two more jumps.”

  Rat-tat-tat, said the machine gun again. Now it was zeroed in; the rounds made a sharp, dry sound as they struck the banked, hard-frozen earth on the edge of the trench.

  “If I could only see him…Walter…I’d shoot now…can’t you spot him? He must be behind us, at an angle—”

  Wolfgang’s voice was drowned out by a high-energy detonation in their immediate vicinity. Some clumps of flying mud hit them on the back—they were the harmless clumps, the ones that fell perpendicularly to earth. With the next explosion, the two men pushed themselves up off the ground and ran forward crouching. Before the machine gun began its rat-tat-tat, Proska looked back for Wolfgang, quickly turning around to see whether the Milk Roll had likewise jumped up and run. And in that moment, Proska stumbled, his automatic rifle flew into the snow several meters away, and his fingers dug into the white blanket. A hard pain went through his chest. He tasted snow o
n his tongue, and suddenly rings of fire were whirling before his eyes. Blood rushed to his ears, as though dashing for a just-discovered exit. He groaned, bent his back and his neck, and rolled onto his side. The pain was still stuck fast in his chest, right next to his heart. Trembling, Proska groped for the buttons of his overcoat, undid them, and thrust his hand through the opening. Then he drew his hand back and looked at it fearfully. The hand wasn’t bloody; maybe the red stuff hadn’t soaked through his jacket yet. He unbuttoned the jacket, groaning all the while, placed his fingertips on his warm chest, and felt for blood. But he found nothing. Although he could precisely identify the spot at the center of the pain, his investigations produced no further information.

  Wolfgang came creeping over to him.

  “Walter!” he cried.

  “You have to get out of here,” Proska said with an effort. “I can’t walk. You’ll find your way back, it’s not far. Not far at all, two or three good jumps.”

  “What’s the matter, are you hit? I still have a bandage pack with me.”

  “It’s no use,” said Proska.

  “Be quiet now. Turn over, go on! I’m going to cut your overcoat open, then you’ll be all right. Two or three good jumps.”

  The MG started its staccato hammering again, but the bullets whizzed over their heads, too high, much too high.

  Wolfgang cut open the back of Proska’s overcoat and then his jacket and his shirt. His skin was unscathed, no entrance wound anywhere, and no exit wound either. But Proska surely must have been hit. What path into his body had the metal slug taken?