Hals, exuberant as always, was describing the battle, miming certain scenes with sweeping gestures of his left arm and hand, which held his glass, while with his right he vigorously scratched his arm pits, which swarmed with lice. Lindberg, as always when things were going well for us, was in a state of high excitement. Cowardice had affected him more than anybody else, and his face, although it looked as young as ever, bore the traces.
Several men had fallen asleep, despite the noise. Everyone who stayed awake was soon quite drunk. As always at a German celebration, several fellows began to sing — marching songs, because we knew hardly any others. In the shadowy light of the isba, the scene looked fantastic and unreal.
The veteran began a Russian song. None of the rest of us understood him. We didn’t know whether we were listening to a Revolutionary song or a song from the friendly Ukraine — although the distinction no longer mattered, as our Ukrainian days were over.
Everyone was singing whatever he liked, as part of a continuously increasing uproar. Hals had been twisting my arm to sing something in French, and I obliged, despite a growing desire to vomit, adding the “Sambre et Meuse” and a series of more or less obscene songs to the general discord.
Hals, who was as tight as a drum, burst out laughing and shouted: “Here come the Franzosen to the rescue: Ourrah pobieda!”
Then something disagreeable happened. Lensen stood up, stiff with drunkenness.
“Who the hell is talking about the Franzosen? What can anyone expect from a bunch of lousy milquetoasts like that?”
He was shouting at Hals, who was dancing heavily, like a bear. Hals grabbed him by the arm, and tried to pull him into a waltz.
“Shut up, you idiot!” Lensen yelled. “Go stick your head in the snow instead of belching out such crap.”
Hals, who was almost a head taller, went right on dancing. Then Lensen let him have it with his fists, shouting at him louder than his minuscule superiority of rank gave him any right to do.
“Stillgestanden, gefreiter!” he yelled.
“Who the hell do you think you are? Are you telling me to shut up?” Hals was trying to stare at Lensen through eyes clouded by drink. “Stillgestanden!” Lensen repeated. “Or I’ll give you something you won’t like.”
“But you’re forgetting Sajer!” Hals shouted, waving at me. By now he was purple-faced too.
“He’s half French, and he’s lived in France all his life. And anyway the French are with us now.”
He’d obviously been reading the same stories I had.
“You damned fool. Where the hell did you get that?”
“But it’s true!” someone else shouted.
“I read it in Ost Front.”
I no longer knew which way to look.
“Wake up, you dummkopf. So what if a handful of those milksops have come over to us? It doesn’t mean a damn thing. And anyone who thinks anything different is no better than they are — goddamned black-haired guitarists whining over their goddamned love gongs.”
I knew that Lensen was talking about the fundamental discord which has always existed between South Germany and Prussia.
“You’re forgetting, Lensen, that my mother grew up just outside Berlin,” I said.
“Well, then, you’ve got to choose. Either you’re German like us, or you’re one of those worthless, feckless Frogs.”
I was on the point of saying that after all I didn’t really have much choice.
“And you were asked to make just that choice in Poland, even at Chemnitz. I remember. I was there.”
“But he did choose!” Hals shouted. “And here he is, in the same boat as you and me and all the rest of us.”
“So — he doesn’t have any more goddamn connection with the French.”
Lensen, who was unquestionably brave, had been awarded the Iron Cross after destroying his seventh tank.
I suddenly felt overwhelmingly depressed and vulnerable, and incapable of ever attaining anything like Lensen’s record. As always, I found the war almost totally paralyzing — probably because of my soft French blood, which Lensen despised so much. I was really almost as bad as Lindberg. He wasn’t a true German either, but came from somewhere near Lake Constance — one of Lensen’s typical “black-hairs.”
A joyous group had begun to sing “Marienka,” and general drunken revelry took over again. This time, though, I stayed on the sidelines, sunk in thought. All the pride I had felt when I had sworn my oath at Camp F, all my joy in feeling that at last I was the equal of my companions, for whom I felt an unquestioning respect, all the struggles and miseries undertaken and endured with the burning faith of a true believer — all of these had been once again cast into doubt by Lensen’s drunken outburst. I had always sensed a certain scorn on his part. However, once in Poland he had come to my defense, and I had jumped to the conclusion that he held nothing against me on account of my origins. Now I knew the truth. Despite all my efforts, and all the suffering we bad been through together, my comrades rejected me. Would they ever think me worthy of bearing German arms? Inwardly, I cursed my parents for having brought me into the world at their particular crossroads.
I felt angry and sad and incredibly alone. I knew that I could count on Hals and Wiener and maybe a few others; but even they had started drinking and singing again, beside their blood brothers.
I would never again be able to sing with a light, casual spirit those German songs I enjoyed so much. And someday, maybe very soon, I might die, in a position not much better than that of an adoring black slave at his master’s side. This vision of things was unbearable, and increased the nausea brought on by alcohol. I went outside to vomit and take a few breaths of icy air. My drunkenness prevented any further thought, and when I returned to the hut, I collapsed onto a heap of packs, to scratch at the lice biting me under my belt.
The next morning, the Russian front began to move again. First they sent over a few rounds of artillery. They had been keeping us in a state of expectation for several days now, undoubtedly preparing a definitive offensive with the slowness characteristic of their organization. During the day, we were reinforced by an artillery column which meant digging new trenches, and blistered hands for all of us. All along the front, our troops were ordered to break up the Russian positions.
That afternoon, we pounded the enemy with our big guns. They remained obstinately quiet. As soon as it was dark, certain sections loaded with ammunition left our trenches and advanced across the snowy ground. We had resumed our push to the east.
Scheisse! In a state of considerable apprehension, these groups fell on a motorized Soviet regiment, whose mass of vehicles seemed immobilized for all eternity. The night stillness was broken by the sound of our F.M.s and grenades, the cries of the Russians, surprised by this sudden and unexpected display of aggressiveness, and the roar of incendiary bombs, which must have consumed a costly quantity of materiel.
Then our men made a half turn, before the Russians were able to muster an organized reaction, and ran back to our trenches, bathed in transitory glory.
We had, in fact, aroused the anger of the Russians, who decided to retaliate as soon as it was light.
As at Belgorod, the whole horizon burst into flame, with the sudden, total involvement of the opening bars of a Wagner opera. Our frantic dash to our positions assumed a tragic quality, as the rain of fire was so dense that a quarter of our men fell before they’d reached the line. Then, we relived scenes and experiences very like what we’d known before. The sight of comrades screaming and writhing through final moments of agony had become no more bearable with familiarity, and I, despite my longing to live or die a worthy hero of the Wehrmacht, was no less of an animal stiff with uncontrollable terror.