The Kindly Ones Page 19

  Häfner was a narrow but methodical man. He explained his plan of action to me in front of a map, and wrote up a list of everything he lacked, so that I could support his requests. I was supposed to inspect all the Teilkommandos; that was obviously impossible, and I resigned myself to staying a few days in Pereyaslav while I waited to see what came next. In any case, the Vorkommando was already in Poltava with Blobel: given the state of the roads, I had no hope of joining them before the fall of Kharkov. Häfner was pessimistic: “The sector is swarming with partisans. The Wehrmacht is conducting sweeps but isn’t accomplishing much. They want us to back them up. But the men are exhausted, finished. You’ve seen the shit we’re eating.”—“It’s regular army food. And they’re having a much harder time of it than we are.”—“Physically, yes, I agree. But our men are morally at the end of their tether.” Häfner was right and I would soon see so for myself. Ott went out with a platoon of twenty men to search a nearby village where partisans had been reported; I decided to accompany him. We left at dawn, with a truck and a Kübelwagen, an all-terrain vehicle, lent for the occasion by the division stationed in Pereyaslav. The rain slashed down, thick, interminable, we were soaked even before we left. The smell of wet wool filled the vehicle. Harpe, Ott’s driver, maneuvered skillfully to avoid the worst mudholes; the rear wheels kept slipping sideways in the muck; sometimes he managed to control the skid, but often the vehicle went completely sideways, and we had to climb out to set it right; then we would sink up to our ankles in the sludge, some of us even lost our boots in it. Everyone swore, shouted, cursed. Ott had loaded some boards into the truck, which we wedged under the stuck wheels; sometimes that helped; but if the vehicle was off-kilter, one of the drive wheels would start spinning on its own, projecting huge sprays of liquid mud. My greatcoat and my pants were soon completely covered in mud. Some of the men had their faces coated with it, you could just see their exhausted eyes gleaming through; as soon as the vehicle was unstuck, they quickly washed their hands and faces in a puddle and climbed back in. The village was seven kilometers from Pereyaslav; the trip took us three hours. When we arrived, Ott sent a group into a blocking position beyond the last houses while he deployed the others on both sides of the main street. The wretched isbas were lined up in the rain, their thatched roofs streaming into flooded gardens; a few soaked chickens were scattered here and there; we couldn’t see anyone. Ott sent a noncom and the Dolmetscher to look for the Staroste. They returned after about ten minutes, accompanied by a little old man wrapped in a sheepskin coat and wearing a shabby rabbit fur hat. Ott interrogated him standing in the rain; the old man moaned, denied there were any partisans. Ott got angry. “He says there are only old men here, and women,” the Dolmetscher translated. “All the men have died or left.”—“Tell him that if we find anything we’ll hang him first!” Ott shouted. Then he sent his men to search the houses. “Check the ground! Sometimes they dig bunkers.” I followed one of the groups. The mud lay just as thick in the single little village lane as on the road; we entered the isbas with mud packed on our feet, and we tracked it everywhere. Inside we really did find only old men, filthy women, lice-ridden children lying on big whitewashed clay stoves. There wasn’t much to search: the ground was of beaten earth, without any wood flooring; there was almost no furniture, and no attics, either, since the roofs rested directly on the walls. Everything stank of filth, mold, and urine. Behind the houses lined up to the left of the lane began a little birch wood, slightly higher up. I walked between two isbas to the edge of the forest. Water pattered on the branches, swelling the dead, rotting leaves that carpeted the ground; the slope was slippery and hard to climb. The wood seemed empty but with the rain you couldn’t see very far. A strangely animated pile of branches drew my gaze: the brown leaves were swarming with hundreds of little black beetles; underneath, there were some decomposed human remains, still dressed in the rags of brown uniforms. I tried to cover them up, horrified by the creatures, but they kept overflowing and running everywhere. Exasperated, I aimed a kick at the mass. A skull detached itself and rolled to the bottom of the slope, scattering beetles in the mud. I walked back down. The skull was resting against a stone, quite clean, its empty sockets swarming with beetles, its gnawed lips baring yellow teeth, washed by the rain: and the skull had opened, revealing the intact flesh of the mouth, a thick, almost wriggling tongue, pink, obscene. I went back to join Ott, who was now in the center of the village with the Staroste and the Dolmetscher. “Ask him where the corpses in the wood come from,” I said to the Dolmetscher. The old man’s shapka was dripping into his beard; he muttered, half toothless, “They’re soldiers from the Red Army. There were battles in the wood, last month. A lot of soldiers were killed. The villagers buried the ones they found, but they didn’t look everywhere.”—“What about their weapons?” Once again the Dolmetscher had to translate. “They gave them to the Germans, he says.” A Scharführer approached and saluted Ott. “Untersturmführer, there’s nothing here.” Ott was in a foul mood. “Search again! I’m sure they’re hiding something.” Other soldiers and some Orpos drifted in. “Untersturmführer, we looked, and there’s nothing.”—“Search, I said!” At that moment we heard a sharp cry a little farther up. An indistinct form was running in the street. “There!” Ott shouted. The Scharführer took aim and shot through the curtain of rain. The form collapsed in the mud. The men deployed to advance, on the lookout. “It was a woman, idiot,” a voice said. “You watch out who you call an idiot!” barked the Scharführer. A man turned the body over in the mud: it was a young peasant woman, with a colored scarf on her head, pregnant. “She just panicked,” said one of the men. “You didn’t have to shoot her like that.”—“She isn’t dead yet,” said the man who was examining her. The orderly came over: “Take her into the house.” Several men picked her up; her head fell back, her muddy dress stuck to her enormous belly, the rain pummeled her body. They carried her into the house and put her on a table. An old woman sat sobbing in a corner, otherwise the isba was empty. The girl was groaning. The orderly ripped open her dress and examined her. “She’s finished. But she’s at full term, we can still save the baby, with a little luck.” He began to give directions to the two soldiers standing there. “Heat some water.” I went out into the rain to find Ott, who had gone back to the vehicles. “What’s happening, then?”—“The girl is going to die. Your orderly is trying to perform a caesarian section.”—“A caesarian?! Christ, he’s gone nuts!” He began to clamber up the street, squelching through the mud, to the house. I followed him. He burst in: “What is this mess, Greve?” The orderly was holding a little bloody bundle, swaddled in a sheet, and had just finished tying off the umbilical cord. The girl, dead, lay on the table with her eyes wide open, naked, covered in blood, sliced open from the navel to the sex. “It worked, Untersturmführer,” Greve said. “He should live. But they’ll have to find a wet nurse.”—“You’re crazy!” Ott shouted. “Give me that!”—“Why?”—“Give me that!” Ott was pale and trembling. He tore the newborn from Greve’s hands and, holding it by its feet, smashed its skull against the corner of the stove. Then he threw it on the ground. Greve was foaming at the mouth: “Why did you do that?!” Ott was shouting too: “You should have let it croak in its mother’s womb, you moron! You should have left it alone! Why did you take it out? Wasn’t it cozy enough in there?” He turned on his heels and went out. Greve was sobbing: “You shouldn’t have done that, you shouldn’t have done that.” I followed Ott, who stood raging in the mud and the rain in front of the Scharführer and some men gathered round. “Ott…,” I called out. Behind me a call resounded: “Untersturmführer!” I turned around: Greve, his hands still red with blood, was coming out of the isba, his rifle shouldered. I stepped back and he headed straight for Ott. “Untersturmführer!” Ott turned around, saw the rifle and began yelling: “What, you asshole, what do you want? You want to shoot, is that it? Go ahead!” The Scharführer was also shouting: “Greve, in the name of God, put that rifle dow
n!”—“You shouldn’t have done that,” Greve was yelling as he kept approaching Ott.—“Well, go on, you bastard, shoot!”—“Greve, stop that right now!” the Scharführer roared. Greve fired; Ott, hit in the head, flew back and collapsed in a puddle with a great splash of water. Greve kept his rifle raised; everyone had fallen silent. All that could be heard was the beating of the rain on the puddles, on the mud, on the men’s helmets, on the roof thatch. Greve was trembling like a leaf, his rifle at his shoulder. “He shouldn’t have done that,” he repeated stupidly. “Greve,” I said softly. A wild look in his eyes, Greve aimed his rifle at me. I very slowly spread my hands apart without saying anything. Greve redirected his rifle at the Scharführer. Two of the men were aiming their rifles at Greve. Greve kept his rifle pointed at the Scharführer. The men could shoot him but he would probably also kill the Scharführer. “Greve,” the Scharführer said calmly, “You’ve really fucked up. Ott was a scumbag, okay. But now you’re really in for it.”—“Greve,” I said. “Put down your weapon. Otherwise we’ll have to kill you. If you turn yourself in I’ll testify in your favor.”—“I’m fucked anyway,” Greve said. He was still aiming at the Scharführer. “If you shoot I won’t die alone.” He aimed his rifle at me again, at point-blank range. The rain was dripping from the muzzle, just in front of my eyes, and was streaming on my face. “Hauptsturmführer!” the Scharführer called. “Do you mind if I settle this my way? To avoid any more trouble.” I nodded. The Scharführer turned toward Greve. “Greve. I’ll give you a five minutes’ head start. After that we’ll come looking for you.” Greve hesitated. Then he lowered his rifle and bolted toward the forest. We waited. I looked at Ott. His head floated in the water, his face just above the surface, with a black hole in the center of his forehead. The blood was forming blackish coils in the cloudy water. The rain had washed his face, was drumming on his open, surprised eyes, slowly filling his mouth, running out of the corners. “Andersen,” the Scharführer said. “Take three men and go look for him.”—“We won’t find him, Scharführer.”—“Go find him.” He turned toward me: “Do you have any objections, Hauptsturmführer?” I shook my head: “None.” Other men had joined us. Four of them were heading for the wood, their rifles shouldered. Four others picked up Ott’s corpse and carried it by the greatcoat to the truck. I followed them with the Scharführer. They loaded the body through a side panel; the Scharführer sent some men to give the signal to regroup. I wanted to smoke but it was impossible, even under the greatcoat. The men were drifting back to the vehicles. We waited for the ones the Scharführer had sent in search of Greve, listening for gunfire. I noticed that the Staroste had prudently disappeared, but didn’t say anything. Finally Andersen and the others reappeared, gray shadows emerging through the rain. “We looked in the wood, Scharführer. But we didn’t find anything. He must be hiding.”—“That’s fine. Get in.” The Scharführer looked at me: “The partisans will skin him alive anyway, the son of a bitch.”—“I told you, Scharführer, I have no objection to your decision. You avoided more bloodshed, I congratulate you.”—“Thank you, Hauptsturmführer.” We took to the road again, bearing Ott’s body. Getting back to Pereyaslav took even longer than the way out. When we arrived, without even changing, I went to explain the incident to Häfner. He listened and then kept silent for a long moment. “You think he’ll go join the partisans?” he finally asked.—“I think that if there are partisans there, and they find him, they’ll kill him. In any case he won’t survive the winter.”—“And if he tries to live in the village?”—“They’re much too afraid, they’ll denounce him. Either to us, or to the partisans.”—“Fine.” He thought some more. “I’m going to declare him a deserter, armed and dangerous, and that’s it.” He paused again. “Poor Ott. He was a good officer.”—“If you want my opinion,” I said dryly, “he should have been sent on leave a long time ago. That might have avoided this whole business.”—“You’re probably right.” A large puddle was forming under my chair. Häfner stretched his neck, jutting out his wide square chin: “What a mess, all the same. Do you want to deal with the report for the Standartenführer?”—“No, it’s your Kommando after all. You do it and then I’ll countersign it, as a witness. And be sure to make me a copy, for Amt Three.”—“Understood.” I finally went to change and smoke a cigarette. Outside, the rain was still beating down, as if it would never end.

  Once again, I slept poorly; that seemed to be the rule in Pereyaslav. The men grunted and snored; as soon as I dozed off, the teeth-grinding of the little Waffen-SS cut into my sleep and pulled me out of it abruptly. In this groggy drowsiness, Ott’s face in the water and the skull of the Russian soldier became confused: Ott, lying in the puddle, opened his mouth wide and stuck his tongue out at me, a thick, pink, fresh tongue, as if he were inviting me to kiss him. I awoke anxious, tired. Over breakfast, once again I was overcome with coughing, then with violent retching; I slipped out to an empty hallway, but nothing came up. When I went back to the table, Häfner was waiting for me with a teletype: “Kharkov has just fallen, Hauptsturmführer. The Standartenführer is waiting for you in Poltava.”—“In Poltava?” I pointed to the sodden windows. “He has to be kidding. How does he expect me to get there?”—“The trains are still running, from Kiev to Poltava. When the partisans don’t derail them. There’s a Rollbahn convoy that’s leaving for Yagotin; I called the division, they said they’ll take you. Yagotin is on the railroad, so from there you can get a train.” Häfner was truly an efficient officer. “Fine, I’ll go tell my driver.”—“No, your driver will stay here. That Admiral will never get as far as Yagotin. You’ll travel with the Rollbahn in one of their trucks. I’ll send the driver with the car back to Kiev when it’s possible.”—“Fine.”—“The convoy leaves at noon. I’ll give you some dispatches for the Standartenführer, including the report about Ott’s death.”—“Fine.” I went to get my kit ready. Then I sat down at a table and wrote a letter to Thomas, straightforwardly describing the previous day’s incident: You discuss this with the Brigadeführer, since I know Blobel won’t do anything, aside from covering himself. We have to learn from this, otherwise it might happen again. After I finished the letter, I sealed it in an envelope and put it aside. Then I went to find Ries. “Tell me, Ries, your little child-soldier, there, the one who grates his teeth. What’s his name?”—“You mean Hanika? Franz Hanika. The one I showed you?”—“Yes, him. Can you give him to me?” He raised his eyebrows, taken aback. “Give him to you? Why?”—“I’m leaving my driver here; I left my orderly in Kiev, so I need another one. And in Kharkov I can have him put up in a separate room, that way he won’t bother anyone anymore.” Ries seemed delighted: “Listen, Hauptsturmführer, if you’re serious…I’m all for it. I’ll go ask the Obersturmführer; I don’t think he’ll have any objections.”—“Fine. I’ll go tell this Hanika.” I found him in the mess, where he was scouring pots. “Hanika!” He stood at attention and I saw he had a bruise on one cheek. “Yes?”—“I’m leaving for Poltava and then Kharkov. I need an orderly. Do you want to come?” His strained face lit up: “With you?”—“Yes. Your work won’t change much, but at least you won’t have the others on your back.” He looked radiant, like a child who has just received an unexpected present. “Go get your things ready,” I said to him.

  The journey by truck to Yagotin remains for me a long wandering, an endless foundering. The men spent more time outside the trucks pushing than in the cabs. But as terrible as the mud was, the idea of what would come later scared them even more. “We have nothing, Herr Hauptsturmführer, you understand? Nothing,” a Feldwebel explained to me. “No warm underclothes, no sweaters, no winter coats, no antifreeze, nothing. The Reds are ready for winter, though.”—“They’re men like us. They’ll be cold too.”—“It’s not that. Cold can be dealt with. But you have to be equipped, and they are. And even if they aren’t, they’ll be able to improvise. They’ve lived with it all their lives.” He cited a striking example he had from one of his Hiwis: in the Red Army, t
he men received boots two sizes bigger than their actual foot size. “With the frost, the feet swell, and then it leaves more room to fill them with straw and newspaper. We have boots that are just at the right size. Half the men are going to end up in the infirmary with their toes amputated.”