Coming to the gravel road, he turned and walked as far as the machine shop situated between the repair garage and the maintenance building. Schmidt waved from the window socket; the glass panes of the metal sash were either broken or missing. Low in height, the shop building was stoutly constructed of cement block. The concrete floor was stained with grease and oil and littered with a mix of small, worn machine parts and dirty rags. The skylight in the ceiling leaked. “That smell is giving me a headache,” Schmidt complained, referring to the pile of smoldering railroad ties. The slight wind was enough to stir the plume from the equipment dump east of the tracks.
“Where’s Braun?”
“Scrounging for fuel. He was here a little while ago and then took off again.”
Angst told Schmidt of what he had found at the house while searching for the captain’s headquarters and described the short-lived tryst Detwiler had with the Russian woman. “Considering the strain we’re under, day in and day out,” Schmidt remarked, “it’s no wonder a man should want a release.”
Angst was appalled. “That outlook is surprising, coming from someone as moral as you.”
“I’m not condoning it, but I can understand how such passions can inflame a man. He could be dead at any moment, so why not take advantage of the situation? You hate Detwiler a lot. Too much, in fact. If it was anyone else, you might be more sympathetic.”
“Reinhardt threatened to send him to a penal battalion.”
“Officially, we’re not supposed have intimate relations with so-called subhumans. From an ideological point of view, it is considered racial defilement. Our National Socialist masters like to think they have us all on a short leash, and for the most part, they do. But out here, as long as there are no party members or political officers about, the tendency is to look the other way. At least I haven’t heard of any punishments meted out for that sort of thing. I think Detwiler has the greater worry of being charged with dereliction of duty. And you, too, for that matter. It all depends on what happens here. Once we’ve returned to our lines, I doubt if Reinhardt will give too much consideration to the matter.”
“From my experience, you can never tell with a sergeant.” Angst gave Schmidt his binoculars. “I’ll see if I can lend Braun a hand.” He left his friend, feeling a trifle disconsolate. So, I hate Detwiler and find him disgusting. So what?, he thought. Schmidt was too understanding, especially for a Catholic. At least the ones he knew. The street and paths between the workshops and tool sheds were deeply rutted. The small buildings were constructed of wood slats, tarpaper, or tin; only a few were built with corrugated metal or brick. The structures were empty, except for work tables saturated with machine oil and covered with metal filings. Rusting cans, the labels obscured by dry streaks of paint, remained on the shelves. He spotted Braun turning the corner from a narrow passageway and called his name. The grenadier stopped short, looked relieved when he saw it was Angst, and signaled him to come over.
“Did you find any gasoline?”
“Something much better,” Braun said, his body tense with excitement. He had Angst follow as he backtracked down the narrow passage and stopped at a brick workshop that stood on the corner of the muddy street. Undoing the short length of chain looped through the hasp, he opened the double doors just enough to allow them to enter. “Careful, Wilms is on the water tower, and I don’t know if he can see us.” Inside, something bulbous lay concealed under a heavy tarpaulin. Rubber wheels could be seen where the edge of the cloth fell short of reaching the ground. Braun pulled a section of tarp aside and revealed the Volkswagen underneath. “We were saving up for one of these. Papa was, anyway. I’d contribute a few marks when I could. He’d buy coupons every month, religiously. Then along came the war, and production went on hold.” Braun gazed upon the automobile with awe. The dull black finish had been scraped along the door and fender, and there were a few dents in the body. The treads were worn, but the tires were firm to the touch. “We were nearly there, too, almost paid up in full. I deserve this one.”
“Do you plan to drive it across the Dniepr? I hear these things can float.”
“As soon as this business is finished, I have a mind to do just that, but don’t tell anybody.”
“I won’t say a word, but you will need gasoline, and the captain will want whatever is left for the Two-Twenty Two before he surrenders a drop to you.”
Braun smirked. “To hell with Falkenstein and his precious gasoline. I don’t need it. The fuel tank is half full, and it works. I started her up, and the engine turned over, nice, but now I don’t want to take any more chances.”
“You won’t be allowed to keep it.”
Braun grew immediately despondent. “I know, but still I earned the right to drive it back to our lines, south, back to the regiment. You, me, and Schmidt.”
The idea was pleasant to consider, but wholly impractical, Angst thought. But somebody had to remain hopeful, and today, at this moment, it was Braun’s turn.
“What do you think our chances are of getting out of here, Johann?”
“I’d settle for fifty-fifty, but I think it’s less.”
Braun considered the odds. “Fifty-fifty…this mission has been a lark from the very beginning. I wish I’d never laid eyes on Falkenstein.”
“You were all fired up to be one of his tank killers, from what I recollect, waving your rifle around and shouting ‘Death to Red Vengeance.’”
“Everyone was caught up in the excitement. So were you. The schnapps helped me along. What’s your excuse?” Braun pulled the tarpaulin over the Volkswagen. It seemed an angry gesture. When Angst tried to lend a hand, his friend’s gruff manner indicated he did not need any help.
“I think we’re guaranteed plenty of excitement before this is all over,” Angst said.
Braun remained silent. Once the car was suitably covered, they left the workshop. Braun replaced the chain, as a precaution, not that it could effectively bar entry. Without the chain, the weight of the doors made them tend to swing open. The car would help to keep some hope alive, Angst thought, as they walked back to the machine shop. It was reassuring, at least for Braun’s sake, to know that they possessed the ability to speed out of this accursed, tormented land.
34
The women had moved several more pieces of furniture into the parlor, including a paraffin lamp and even a lace doily for the armchair. The few extra items available transformed the former officers’ club into a respectable, if sparse, middle-class sitting room. Valeria moved about dully, if at all, only due to Elenya’s constant prodding. They had carried down a cot from the upstairs crawlspace—nothing more elaborate than a strip of canvas attached to a folding wood frame—and set it up in the storeroom. Now emptied of all the useless items that had previously occupied the room, the space could serve as the captain’s sleeping quarters. A gray wool blanket lay folded neatly on the cot.
Vogel repeatedly made trips back and forth from the command vehicle, hauling some of the captain’s personal equipment. Mueller had helped set up the field telephone and began the project of laying cable from the spool. It was decided to set up the second terminal with Schroeder at the workers’ settlement for the time being. There wasn’t enough line to reach that distance, so the young grenadier was given the added task of salvaging line from downed poles to supplement the length. Falkenstein hobbled into the parlor and set his map case, folder, belt, and pistol holster on the bar counter. If the women expected praise for their efforts, they were disappointed, as the captain ignored their presence. In the foyer Voss examined the women’s identity papers. The locals did not interest him. No mystery, there. Elenya was an ethnic Russian who came from the industrial city of Kirovy Rog; Valeria was more local, originally from a village west of Zaporozhye. Neither of the two women had party affiliations or held a post of any importance. Both had been in the employ of the Wehrmacht since late 1941 as cooks or factory help. An alleged theft of produce warranted a short detention for Elenya, and apparently some deal was brokered that landed her in the occupation she now found herself. The young Ukrainian girl, Valeria, was simply the victim of unfortunate circumstances. Her status as an “entertainer” did not evolve until shortly after her arrival at Veranovka some months ago. Monika Glammers, on the other hand, was something quite different. A graduate student at university when the National Socialists came to power, she was something of a socialist. Near the end of 1934, she was finally arrested and sent to a Wilde Laager for political and religious opponents of the Reich. Then three years at a concentration camp, where she learned her new trade by servicing camp personnel. The SS must have tired of her, as after the war broke out, she was invited to work for the army. Voss pulled her aside. “You’re political.”