When we arrived, I was sent immediately to a hospital, along with some six others from my company. Diarrhea was a common complaint at that time, and a group of specialists were able to stop mine very quickly. My friends were stationed some fifteen miles away, and I knew I would rejoin them once I was well.
The doctors had some trouble getting me on my feet again. I was told that because my complaint had not been attacked until late in the day my “intestinal flora” had been severely damaged.
In fact, it was a good two weeks before I was able to eat normally again. Every day I offered my backside to the orderly, who stabbed me as full of holes as a dressmaker’s pincushion. Twice a day, the thermometer recorded my fever, which remained obstinately at 100°.
Winter had arrived, and I rejoiced as I watched the snow falling from behind the panes of a heated dormitory. I knew that for the moment my friends were out of danger, and, in a state of blissful ignorance, was unaware that over the whole front things were going from bad to worse. Our paper’s coverage of news from the front was limited to photographs of smiling artillerymen installing themselves in a new position, or organizing their winter quarters, and articles which said nothing at all. Hals came to see me twice, bringing mail. He had managed to get himself made a postal assistant, which allowed him to visit me quite easily. He rejoiced at the slightest occasion for rejoicing, roaring with laughter whenever he missed me in a snowball fight. He was just as ignorant as I of the realities of our situation, which would soon involve us in an agonizing retreat, and acquaint us with the depths of horror.
When I had been in the hospital for about three weeks, I was given some marvelous news. I was told to go to the office to be checked for discharge. There an orderly inspected me, and told me that, since I was making a good recovery, he was going to authorize a leave for me.
“It occurs to me,” he said, “that you would rather complete your convalescence at home than here in the hospital.”
I replied that I would, restricting myself to mild assent, lest I offend that kindly angel with excessive exuberance. As a result, I found myself with a ten-day pass — a little shorter than the first one — which would go into effect as soon as it had been stamped. I thought immediately of Berlin and Paula. I would try to get permission for her to go with me to France. And, if that was impossible, I would stay in Berlin with her.
Despite the weakness, which still limited me severely, I was overjoyed. I got ready in record time, and left the hospital — grinning broadly. I also wrote a note to my friends, excusing myself for not having visited them before I left. I thought they would surely understand.
My polished boots moved noiselessly across the snow as I walked to the station. I was so overflowing with happiness that I even nodded and spoke to the Russians I passed on the way. My linen and uniform had been cleaned and mended, and I myself felt neat and new. I forgot my bygone sufferings, and felt only gratitude to the German army and to the Fuhrer for having made me into a man who knew the value of clean sheets and a watertight roof, and of friends who had nothing to offer but devotion, and offered that without reserve. I felt happy once again, and ashamed to have been despairing and afraid. I thought back, from a great distance, to some of the hard times I had experienced during my youth in France, which had sometimes made me think sourly of life. But was there anything that could sour me now? What disappointment could possibly darken things for me? Perhaps if Paula suddenly told me she no longer cared for me?… Yes, perhaps that.
But I felt as though I were now cured of a great many things. During some of my worst moments, I had imagined certain personal disasters — the death of my mother, for instance — and told myself that I could accept even that, if only the firing would stop. I had asked the pardon of every supernatural power for harboring such thoughts, but was prepared to pay that price if it would cut short the carnage by even a little.
The war seemed to have turned me into a monster of indifference, a man without feelings. I was still three months short of eighteen, but felt at least thirty-five.
Now that I have reached that age, I know better.
Peace has brought me many pleasures, but nothing as powerful as that passion for survival in wartime, that faith in love, and that sense of absolutes. It often strikes me with horror that peace is really extremely monotonous. During the terrible moments of war one longs for peace with a passion that is painful to bear. But in peacetime one should never, even for an instant, long for war!
The station was at the end of a cul-de-sac. In front of the esplanade, which took the place of a platform, three wide-gauge Russian tracks ran for a short distance, and then were regrouped into two switchings. A third section of the track vanished after five hundred yards, without any apparent reason. The soft snow deadened all noise and made everything still uncovered look cold and black.
A few wagons and a few empty boxes lay scattered across this peculiarly empty place. Beside the principal station building stood a neat pile of boxes marked WH. Inside, next to a hot stove, four or five Russian railway-men sat absolutely motionless, as if they had died of boredom. There was no sign of a train in any direction, except for a large stationary locomotive, which appeared to be near death after a century of hard use. I no longer remember the name of the place. Perhaps it didn’t have one, or perhaps the signboard had been stuck off in some odd corner so that we Europeans shouldn’t catch sight of its unreadable characters. The prospect of a train passing through seemed as remote and uncertain as the first day of spring.
Despite the slip of paper in my pocket entitling me to a leave and warming my whole being like a glowing stove, I suddenly felt extremely lost in this huge, heavy country. Instinctively, I went to the main station building, where the Russian railwaymen had seemed more profoundly sunk in inertia than any postal worker in France. I knew that it would be almost impossible for me to make myself understood because, even if one of them knew some German, I still spoke it so badly that my fellow soldiers were often hard put to it to make me out. I walked past the door several times, hoping that someone would see me through the pane of glass set in the heavy wood, and give me some information. As no one moved, I pressed my nose against the glass. Inside, I could see four railwaymen identifiable only by the filthy armbands they wore on their sleeves. Otherwise, they were just civilians, and seemed paralyzed by inertia. Not one so much as looked in my direction. I was astonished to see a gray-haired soldier sitting beside them, apparently infected by the same immobility. I looked again, to make sure I wasn’t dreaming, but there it was — a soldier of the Reich fast asleep beside four citizens of occupied Russia. Outraged, I shoved violently against the door, and entered the room, where a heartwarming heat instantly inflamed my cheeks. I clicked my heels as loudly as I could, and the noise resounded like a gunshot through the calm heat of this remarkable place.
The Russians started, and slowly stood up. My half-countryman and fellow soldier only shifted one of his legs. He looked about fifty.
“What can I do for you, Kamerad?” he asked, like a shopkeeper greeting a potential customer.