“We’re starving to death, Sergeant. We’ve not eaten for days,” said one.
Another chimed in, “And that idiot corporal is having us dig—”
“Shut your mouths, all of you. Food is on the way, but you must hang on. Get yourselves dug in. Fortify this side of town as best you can, and then you can eat.”
“Fortify the town from whom, Ivan?” said the other grenadier. “Why don’t we continue on toward the river?” He looked to his comrades for support.
“Yeah. Why should we wait around here so the Russians can kill us?”
“Don’t let me stop you,” Reinhardt said in full agreement. “Go ahead. Leave. But remember, it’s another twenty-five kilometers to the Dniepr, and you will have to find a way to get across. And you’ll be doing so on an empty stomach.”
Schroeder was certain they would make good on the sergeant’s offer, but the sober realization had taken hold. Their fire was dampened, it seemed, at least for a while. Otto started to groan and squirm about. “For as long as you are here, you will take orders from me or the corporal. Not him. Have I made myself clear?” They nodded in agreement and helped the whipped ringleader to his feet. Reinhardt rejoined the women; with Mueller’s help they searched a few more houses on the south side of the road and then returned to the square. A turnip was added to all that had been found.
“Having mouths to feed has become as critical as maintaining defense,” Reinhardt summed up after briefing the lieutenant on the incident at the workers’ settlement. Voss had listened but did not react in any particular way; he seemed preoccupied and, Reinhardt could not help but notice, despondent in the extreme. Having served under the lieutenant for some time, Reinhardt could sense his moods fairly accurately. This was more than the typical overwhelming fatigue the young officer was prone to exhibit lately; it was an unusual sadness. Reinhardt’s confidence ebbed slightly, and he suggested the lieutenant get some rest. “There will be plenty of time for that,” Voss said irritably.
Field rations, mess tins, utensils, and the primus stove were removed from the Hanomag and set up inside the assembly hall. Voss had decided the women could be confined more easily and kept under closer scrutiny within the building. The hall was constructed roughly of wood, with a set of double doors at the front end and glass-paned windows with shutters on either side. Built shortly after the revolution, the assembly hall had been used by the local commissar to inform the peasants what the Soviet expectations were during the course of the successive five-year plans. More recently, the Reichsbahn officials would conduct meetings or hold briefings there, and Monika had said that on occasion films would be shown or banquets held. There were numerous benches that could be tiered and used as tables for the women to set up and prepare the food. There was a bucket of fresh water in the kitchen at the house, and Elenya went to fetch it, along with a large skillet. Voss told them to use everything—the field rations, chocolate, and coffee—for one last meal. He wanted the crew and stragglers calmed down and satisfied before any trouble brewed.
The auxiliary, Yvgeney, had reappeared. He informed everyone, the women especially, that his comrades had abandoned him to “this shit-hole of a town.” He received no sympathy from the women, their nerves still raw from what they had witnessed the night before. Valeria, who had begun to come around and behave with more animation, simply withdrew again in the man’s presence. “I won’t do another thing until that butcher is removed,” Monika threatened. Reinhardt hustled the auxiliary out of the assembly hall and admonished that he tear down the gallows and bury the dead, as the lieutenant had suggested. “Then we will see about getting you something to eat.” Yvgeney cursed but could do nothing, so he staggered out of the square. The women resumed their work. While the vegetables boiled, the last tins of beef were opened and their contents diced, and the coagulated aspic was spooned into the pot to flavor the broth. Monika suggested the sunflower seeds be added to stretch the portions. Elenya agreed, but said they should only be added at the very last minute. The seeds had a tendency to turn bitter if overcooked. Admitting she was not much of a cook, Monika deferred to Elenya’s talents.
Tempted by the aromas, Voss looked in to see how the meal progressed. Despite the crude manner in which the operation was carried out, there was a vague domesticity about the scene. The women seemed to work well together. The youngest, Valeria, timidly informed him that the supply of ersatz coffee was low, and she doubted if there was enough to go around. “Be sure the captain, myself, and my immediate crew get some. The rest will have to drink the last of the water…” He was interrupted by a noise. Loud, long, and filled with anguish, a terrible moaning—familiar, because he had heard it once before at the kolkhoz on the bank of the Samara. The busy, almost cheery scene in the hall became uncomfortably still. Racing out of the hall, he saw Mueller running across the square toward him. The youth had been stationed by the field telephone in the captain’s headquarters since his return from the settlement. The youth was pale. “Something’s wrong with the captain. He’s in a terrible state.”
Voss entered the house and found Vogel standing helplessly by the bar in the parlor. The door to the storage room was open, and they could hear Falkenstein continue to groan. Inside, the wool blanket lay on the floor, twisted into a knot. Drenched in sweat, Falkenstein sat upright on the cot as Khan, an arm around his shoulders, supported him and spoke his arcane language soothingly. The captain’s eyes fluttered and his mouth attempted to form words between stifled breaths. “Flask…coat…” The rubberized riding coat lay draped over a stool in the parlor. Voss searched the pockets and found a small silver flask. He brought it back to the storage room and unscrewed the thimble-sized cap. Hands shaking, Falkenstein took the flask and drank deeply. A minute or two passed, and then, having regained his strength, he was able to speak. “Horrible, such horrible dreams.”
Good, this might be the break in the man’s fevered brain, Voss thought. He was almost enjoying the suffering. “Is the captain in need of medical attention?”
The Mongol assisted as Falkenstein swung his legs down and placed his feet on the floor, but he was still too weak and overcome to stand. “Terrible, loathsome dreams. I have not rested. Instead, I awaken more exhausted than before.” He drained the flask.
Voss spoke coldly. “The captain has much on his mind.”
“These were no ordinary dreams…no, they were visions. Visions of what will come to pass should we fail.”
“The Wehrmacht is doing its utmost under trying circumstances, sir.”
Falkenstein tossed the flask aside. “No, Voss! I mean should we ourselves fail in this endeavor, this mission with which we have been entrusted and have a sacred duty to perform. We cannot fail. There will be no hope for us or anyone if we fail. We few men, our lives lost, that is to be expected. As soldiers we accept whatever the fates decide. But for Germany, our homeland… Berlin…I remember dreaming I was in Berlin, but nothing was familiar because the city lay in utter ruin and devastation. Building upon building reduced to rubble. Indescribable fires burning everywhere. I couldn’t recognize what part of the city I was in. I crawled amid the ruins and hid from the Russian troops that swelled over the piles of brick and crushed masonry. I remember feeling like a hunted animal. So many lay dead, coated in dust and ash. Mothers and children, old men and women. But then I watched as the Russians marched triumphant down the broken paving stones of Unter den Linden. The Red Star was raised over the shell-pocked city. Then I heard it, long before it materialized from out of the columns of smoke, I heard the cogs squealing like a million skewered pigs…Red Vengeance…plowing over the rubble and the dead. It came to a stop at the foot of the Brandenburg Gate. I watched as the Russian troops draped the beast with garlands of sickly bright flowers, and brash music drowned out the death rattle of our vanquished nation…”