Even though he’s still sitting down, Breuer feels his legs starting to shake. And that’s not just the result of the frost that’s slowly creeping up his body. The euphoric feeling of hope he once had has fallen away, flaked off him like a substandard paint job. Had he really imagined that he’d simply be able to board a plane here like he was getting on a train? That he’d be able to walk out of the catastrophe at Stalingrad like he was leaving a bad play? He can feel all the energy draining out of his limbs. But behind this impotence, he has the first inkling, albeit still only slight, that ‘Stalingrad’ has already transcended space and time, that there’s no longer any escape from it even if one went to the ends of the earth, and that unbreakable bonds now tie him to the hundreds of thousands still here – those who are still alive and suffering, the mistreated and the betrayed, and the dead. Anyone who survives these gruesome events unfolding on the snowy fields beside the Volga will henceforth carry Stalingrad with them throughout their entire lives. Minutes spent in the arms of their beloved wife – Stalingrad! The sight of their children’s sparkling eyes – Stalingrad! There’ll be no happiness and no tears without Stalingrad; no achievements, no work and no striving without Stalingrad. No rest, no sleep, no more dreams that don’t involve Stalingrad! And when this life finally comes to be weighed in the balance at the End of Days, the dead of Stalingrad will also pass judgement. And every thought and every deed that was not aimed at overcoming that ludicrous, destructive spirit that insisted upon the mass slaughter of Stalingrad as some ghastly ritual of a barbarian cult of idolatry would be repudiated.
As yet, Breuer only has a faint inkling of all this. And he struggles to fight back this thought and summon up his strength for the fight that still awaits him.
‘Total bloody shambles!’ says the major next to him again. ‘This morning about twenty planes took off from here. Almost all of them empty. There was hardly anyone here for them to take. But still the idiots wouldn’t let you through without a countersigned chit.’
‘Is that a bad injury?’ Breuer enquires absent-mindedly, keeping a lookout all the while for the doctor. If only he’d come back! Assuming he was planning on returning at all, that is. What would happen if he didn’t? There are hundreds of men massing there now.
‘Oh, it’s still just about working,’ replies the major, smiling complacently. ‘Whole arm got ripped open. Real bloody mess, I can tell you!’
Wheeeeuw— whumm! Jesus, what was that? Artillery fire! That’s all they need! The sky grows ever more dull and grey. Snowflakes drift over the airfield. Another droning noise overhead. An aircraft looms up, large and grey, out of the mist, and banks several times over the landing strip, tighter and tighter each time… Everyone is staring up at it intently. Is it going to land? Breuer leaps to his feet. Where the hell has that bloke with the passes got to? There, the plane has lowered its landing gear and is coming in to land! With its engines roaring, it thunders low over their heads. The marshals on the ground wave their flags to direct it in. Up ahead, one of the ‘bodies’ lying in the snow suddenly raises himself up and staggers across the airfield, waving his arms. The aircraft, which is seconds from touching down, hurtles towards him. Everyone on the airfield is yelling in horror. One of the plane’s main wheels clips the man; he spins round a couple of times before slamming to the ground. The aircraft, thrown off course by the impact, makes far too heavy a landing, breaking off its undercarriage. It pancakes onto the landing strip, its fuselage screeching as it ploughs into the snow. A crash-landing. End of story.
Gumrak’s days are numbered. Now that artillery fire is raining down on the area from the west as well, and columns of men and vehicles are streaming out of the village, there can be little doubt on the matter. Anyone who still has the use of his legs, even if only very approximately, has set off on the hopeless journey to Stalingrad. The rest have no choice but to stay behind. In the final days, some thirty to forty men have still been flown out daily. Yet fifteen hundred troops remain holed up in the bunkers, railway carriages and houses there, as well as in the POW camp on the outskirts and the barracks and tents in the nearby balka. What will become of them when the medical personnel also pull out someday soon? The doctors shrug their shoulders and say nothing. Their silence is answer enough.
Padre Peters is no longer with the wounded men, not even in his thoughts. He sits in his bunker and stares at the fire in the stove. In his hand, he weighs a small-format Bible, printed on India paper. It has travelled with him from the altar of the Church of St Andrew in Braunschweig to military cemeteries in Poland and the Ukraine, through field hospitals, bunkers and trenches, and finally found its way here, to Stalingrad. The black Morocco leather binding is as soft as velvet and the pages are like silk to the touch. He’s not about to let the Reds tear it to pieces with mocking laughter before his very eyes! He drops the Bible into the flames and sits and watches it curl up and its pages fan out as it is slowly consumed by the fierce, red-hot glow… Muddled thoughts keep skating over the surface of his consciousness. He’s lost any capacity to control them. What a hard road Padre Peters has had to travel! Cocooned in the robust armour of his faith, he has struggled and fought against the overwhelming horror like no one else. He has prayed for strength, found an inner strength, and inspired others to be strong. He has shone a light into hell. At least, that was once the case… but Stalingrad has shredded him, torn him to pieces, ground him down both physically and mentally; it has squeezed the last drop of strength out of him. What remains is a wreck, a floundering, helpless, rudderless wreck of a human being.
Peters is no longer master of his own fate. He has immolated himself.
Corporal Brezel bursts into the bunker.
‘Time we were off, I reckon, Padre! The doctors have left in the car, and the rest over there are getting ready to clear out. There’s already some shooting going on, down over on the far left – small-arms fire!’ He plonks a salami down on the table.
‘From the food stores. The men have just ransacked it.’
Padre Peters gets to his feet like an old man. He breaks the sausage in two, takes a bite of his piece and then pours himself a mug of communion wine from a canteen. Vacantly, he passes the canteen to Brezel, who takes a swig. Thank God, the corporal thinks.He’s coming to his senses again! He anxiously gathers up his few belongings. His history of the division is not among them. All the while, Peters sits on the camp bed, chewing the salami. He has no thoughts or feelings any more. Brezel, who is preoccupied with his own worries, eventually drags him to his feet, drapes his greatcoat round him, shoves a blanket and haversack under his arm, and takes him outside. The street is totally deserted. Deep silence still looms like a nightmare over the place, and everything seems to have perished. Yet this silence is deceptive; secretly, life goes on in a thousand different ways, albeit a forsaken, doomed kind of life. Peters feels nothing; aimlessly and passively he staggers along beside Brezel into the grey gloom. He has forgotten everything: the past, the present – and he has no conception of any future.