35
Berlin, October 30th, 1942
My darling Peter
,
It is hell here, Peter. Absolute hell. My mother shouts at my father all the time. Any little thing turns into the most enormous row. Yesterday, she accused him of having an affair with another woman. Somebody called Maria. He laughed at her and walked out the door. Again
.
I’m always on my own, Peter. It’s just me and Johannes, and it feels so lonely. My mother is about, of course, but she only moves from her bedroom to the living room, just as my brother did, wearing her dressing gown all day, staring at nothing, scavenging all the time through the kitchen cupboards so that she is becoming bloated, fat at a time when everybody else is losing weight. I no longer bother talking to her as she just shouts at me, even when I am holding the baby
.
I spend all day at the park, though it’s freezing. But I’ve nowhere else to go to find peace. Come home please soon, my love. I need you to take me away from all this. I do hope that
your mother will be a better grandmother to our child than my own
.
With love
,
Katharina
PS I hear from the radio and read in the newspapers that the fight for Stalingrad is going well. Keep up the good work, my darling. I am very proud of you, of your bravery. Johannes is too. PPS I hope that you are not having an affair with some Russian woman. Natasha here is a little dull to look at, but I am sure there are others who are prettier. You wouldn’t, would you?
36
Faber flopped onto the cellar floor, waking Faustmann.
‘Where’s Weiss?’
‘Dead.’
Faustmann rolled into a tight ball.
‘What happened?’
‘Shrapnel. His stomach. Mortar shell.’
‘The poor bastard. Are you all right, Faber?’
‘No.’
Kraft handed Faber coffee in a tin cup.
‘Drink, Faber. And then sleep.’
He slept, tucked between the two men, the warmth of their bodies soothing him. He woke at five again and sat with his hands over his mouth, watching morning creep into the room and light up the shelf Kraft had decorated. A porcelain ballerina, one arm
missing, a sepia picture of his mother, a candle, a flower of blue tattered silk and a black carriage clock that no longer told the right time, stuck on half past six. The other two woke and Kraft made more coffee.
‘What about his parents?’ said Faustmann.
‘What about them?’
‘Will you write to them?’
‘The army will do that.’
‘But you should too, Faber. You were the last person with him.’
‘What? And tell them their son died with his gut spewing out all over the ground? I can’t do that, Faustmann.’
‘Somebody should.’
‘You do it. You didn’t see him. It’s easier then.’
‘Maybe Kraus should. Does he know yet?’
‘No. Not yet.’
Kraft poured coffee into cups and gave them each a chunk of chocolate.
‘How do you find this stuff?’ said Faber.
‘I pay lots of money for it. More than others are prepared to.’
‘Or able to,’ said Faustmann.
‘That may be so,’ he said, handing them each another piece of chocolate. He stood up and began to tidy their packs, to hang coats and hats from makeshift pegs he had hammered into the wall.
‘Aren’t you having any?’
‘I’m not hungry, Faber.’
‘You didn’t fight at all, Kraft?’ said Faustmann.
‘Did they miss me? Your coats stink.’
‘They’ll execute you if they find out,’ said Faustmann.
‘What? That I’m buying chocolate.’
‘That you’re here. Hiding. Not fighting.’
‘I don’t like it. The noise. The blood. It’s not for me.’
‘None of us likes it,’ said Faber. ‘But we’re supposed to do it.’
‘And I’ve decided not to.’
‘They’ll be looking for you,’ said Faustmann.
‘It’s chaos out there. They won’t notice.’
‘Kraus will,’ said Faber.
‘Is he looking for you? Does he know you two have quit the battlefield to sit here with me drinking coffee and eating chocolate?’
Faustmann drained his cup.
‘We should leave. Thank you for the hospitality.’
Faber followed Faustmann up the rattling staircase and through the hatch.
‘Are you all right, Faber? Are you up for this?’
‘I’ll have to be.’
37
The wind and rain were laced with ice. Faber, Faustmann and Kraus curled into a hole in the ground that faced east, blankets over their heads and shoulders.
‘We’re going to have to accept it, lads,’ said Kraus.
‘What?’ said Faber.
‘That we’re here for the winter. That this will not be over soon.’
‘You can’t say that, Sergeant.’
‘Do you want me to say it again, Faber?’
‘All we need is more men,’ said Faber. ‘They’ve been promised.’
‘There aren’t any.’
‘I’ve seen them, Kraus.’
‘Convalescents and seventeen-year-olds. They’re no use to us.’
‘And officers back from leave,’ said Faustmann. ‘Looking fat and rested.’
‘But they’re on their way,’ said Faber. ‘They must be.’
‘So it’s said. Either way, we need shelter.’
In the early morning darkness, they prised sleepers from the railway line that ran through the city and carried them back to their end of the tractor factory. They dug into the ground and built a wooden cave big enough for them to sleep and squat in, the entrance hidden by a bank of earth, the dampness attenuated by a wood fire in a small metal barrel.
‘How much longer do you think we’ll have to put up with this, Kraus?’
‘I don’t know, Faber.’
The routine was firmly in place. As structured as his father’s teaching. He got up at dawn, urinated, ate and crawled through the rubble with Faustmann and Kraus to find a place for their gun, a nest safe from snipers. A different place each day.
At nine, sometimes earlier, sometimes later, the Russians began firing; rockets and shells hissed and screeched across the river, blasting the already blasted dead, blowing holes in the already mangled earth. He shut out that noise, focusing instead on the sound of a footstep, a breath, a whisper in a language he did not understand. And shot it. Dead. Always dead. Only the dead counted in their end-of-day tally.
‘I’m beating you, Faustmann.’
‘I’ve given up keeping tabs, Faber.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘I couldn’t be bothered, Faber. Too many dead.’
When it was dark, they went to the trench behind them and waited for Stockhoff. He gave them coffee, cabbage soup, chocolate, a day’s rations, razor blades, cigarettes and lice powder.
‘It’s always good to see you, Stockhoff,’ said Kraus. ‘But where’s the meat?’
‘You get what I get.’
‘It’s cold. We need it.’
‘I do tell them that.’
‘And what do they say?’
‘Nothing, so Gunkel is helping me. We are trying.’
‘Any news on replacements?’
‘First-timers again.’
‘They won’t last long then. And winter clothes?’
‘Nothing yet, Sergeant.’
‘And post?’
‘Not a lot. It’s slow too. Only one for Faber and one for Kraft.’
Kraus took both letters, passed one to Faber and looked at the one addressed to Kraft.
‘Has anybody seen him, Stockhoff? Any news?’
‘Nothing, Kraft.’
He threw it to the ground, Faber picked it up and slipped it into the inside pocket of his tunic, next to the photographs of his wife and son. He opened the letter from Katharina. He laughed.
‘She wonders whether I’m having an affair.’
‘Take your pick of those fine Russian women soldiers,’ said Faustmann. ‘Just be careful what she does with her knife.’
‘You’re sick.’
‘Sick and getting sicker.’
Stockhoff left, but his orderlies remained to heat water and clean
out the latrines, the darkness lit by a single oil lamp and Russian phosphorescence.
‘There are advantages to being a frontline soldier,’ said Faustmann.
They lit cigarettes and waited until the orderlies left. The latrines still stank and the water was only warm. Faber dipped his spare vest into the water, squeezed it, rubbed soap into the fabric and cleaned his face, ears, neck, underarms, groin and bottom. He scrubbed his teeth, ignoring the blood, and shaved without a mirror. He dunked his head into the dirty water, shook off the heavy droplets and threw on lice powder, digging it into his scalp with his nails. It would have to do. Everything would have to do.
When it was dark, he went back with Faustmann to the cellar. Kraft was lit by candlelight, dusting, using a sock to wipe away the concrete and rock chippings that fell with each bombardment onto his furniture and decorations. Faber handed him the letter. He didn’t take it.
‘I know.’
‘How can you know?’ said Faber. ‘You haven’t opened the letter.’
‘I already know. Open it if you like.’
Faber read the words written by a neighbour.
‘How did you know?’
‘I just did.’
They sat as he made coffee, their coats still on. It was freezing, colder than in their bunker, but Kraft didn’t seem to notice.
‘Are you eating?’ said Faber.
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘You need to eat, Kraft.’
‘I pick up my rations most nights. What I don’t eat is in my pack. You take it.’
Faber found crackers and six tins of meat.
‘And nobody notices?’ said Faustmann.
‘I put on my helmet. My kit. Take the rations. Come back. Nobody cares.’
They finished their coffee.
‘We should get back,’ said Faustmann.
‘Stay. Please. Just one night. I don’t want to be on my own.’
‘We might be caught,’ said Faber.
‘I haven’t been,’ said Kraft.
They lay down either side of him, each with an arm over him as he wept.
38
Stalingrad, November 19th, 1942
My darling Katharina
,
I laughed at your suggesting I might be having an affair. If only you could see how I live. I am so riddled with lice again that no woman would come near me. I promise I will clean up before I come home!!
I am still waiting to hear about my application for Christmas leave. Faustmann has applied too, and may receive it before me as he has not been home once since we were in France. Kraus has said that he will remain to hold the tractor factory. I imagine that he will be by himself, as everybody else is madly keen to get home
.
I hope things have settled a little between your parents. And
don’t worry, I’ll whisk you and Johannes out of there as soon as this war is over. Which must be very soon. We are so close to the Volga that I could dip my toe in it from here, although they still come at us, hurling whatever weaponry they have. And they are still fighting furiously in the northern and southern sectors. But don’t worry, I am perfectly safe, if filthy, bitterly cold and hungry. I am quite a good soldier now, Katharina. A winter suit would be nice, but I don’t intend on being around here long enough to need it
.
Please find some chocolate for me. And meat. Beef. They are the only two things I want. Apart from you. But no more crackers. Never do I want to see a cracker again. Or snow. It is beginning to fall again. I have had enough snow to last me a lifetime
.
I love you and our son very deeply
.
Wait for me. It will not be long
.
Your loving husband
,
Peter
39
Faustmann turned his head towards the west.
‘What’s wrong?’ said Kraus.
‘I don’t know. Something’s happened. Back there. At the trench.’
They packed up their gun and moved back, even though it was long before nightfall. The trench was full of men, ashen-faced and staring at Stockhoff.
‘We’re surrounded, lads,’ he said.
‘Bullshit,’ said Faber. ‘They’re not capable.’
‘Well, they’ve done it, Faber. They took out the Romanians to the north, then the lads in the south. Zip. We’re locked in.’
‘Those fucking Romanians,’ said Kraus.
‘They were on their own up there, Kraus,’ said Stockhoff. ‘It’s not their fault.’
‘Well, it’s not my bloody fault,’ said Kraus.
He slumped to the trench floor. Faber hunkered down beside him.
‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m just tired, Faber. I’ll be fine.’
‘It won’t last,’ said Faber. ‘They did it at Kharkov and it only lasted a few days.’
‘That was only a few hundred of us,’ said Stockhoff.
‘Why?’ said Faustmann. ‘How many are you talking about here?’
‘All of us.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The entire Sixth Army. Almost three hundred thousand of us.’
The trench fell silent, but the Russian artillery continued firing, its tone gloating, mocking.
‘They can’t hold us all,’ said Faber. ‘We’ll break out.’
‘I’m sure they’ll come up with a plan,’ said Kraus. ‘Like they did at Kharkov. That worked well.’
‘You can’t supply three hundred thousand soldiers from the air,’ said Stockhoff.
‘Those airmen can do anything they put their minds to,’ said Faber.
‘When did you last have a proper meal, lads?’ said Stockhoff. ‘They can’t even supply us from the ground.’
‘They’ll come up with something,’ said Kraus.
Stockhoff stood up. ‘I’m going back to the kitchen. See what I can make for you lot.’
‘Let us know when it’s rat,’ said Faustmann.
Faber wanted to laugh, but didn’t. He went back to the bunker and fiddled with the fire, throwing on some still-damp wood, then sloshing petrol over it. A flame took hold.
‘What do you think, Kraus?’ said Faber. ‘A break-out?’
‘It’s hard because all the tanks have gone north. The horses too. It would be hard on our own. It’s easier if they come for us.’
They drew heavily on their cigarettes.
‘And what?’
‘Clear a passage out for us. Hold back the Russians until we’re through.’
Kraus fell asleep.
‘He looks awful,’ said Faustmann.
‘We should go and tell Kraft,’ said Faber.
They found Kraft humming and still dusting.
‘Gentlemen, I shall make coffee.’
His lips and skin were dry. Flaking.
‘Are you eating, Kraft?’ said Faber. ‘Drinking?’
‘I’ll do it now. Sometimes I forget.’
They drank his coffee. There was no chocolate.
‘We’re surrounded, Kraft,’ said Faustmann.
‘We are?’
‘You can’t really be here on your own any more.’
‘Why not? What’s the difference?’
‘We need you with us,’ said Faustmann. ‘For when the break-out comes. We won’t have time to come and get you.’
‘Where are you sleeping? You both stink.’
‘In a bunker,’ said Faber. ‘Near the tractor factory.’
‘I’m not going back there.’
‘But it’s dangerous for you to be here,’ said Faustmann. ‘On your own.’
‘I’ll take my chances.’
Faber ran his hands through his hair.
‘Will you at least bloody look after yourself, Kraft? Eat and drink properly.’
‘You don’t exactly look a picture of health, Faber. Or you, Faustmann.’
They shook his hand. Faber pressed him to his chest.
‘Mind yourself.’
‘You too. Both of you.’
They climbed again through the hatch, their exit hidden by a mound of soil and concrete. They scuttled east, back towards their bunker. Kraus woke as they barrelled in.
‘You look like shit, Kraus,’ said Faustmann.
‘I feel like shit.’
After soup and coffee in the trench, Kraus went to the rear with Stockhoff, to the medics. Faber and Faustmann went back to the bunker. To wait.