Heinrich Gerlach - Breakout at Stalingrad

‘You’re a star, Lakosch, lad! You really sure you want to donate this for general consumption? Well, if you change your mind, you’d better pipe up quick! We can’t afford to turn our noses up at such generosity!’

Breuer divided up the two bars of chocolate in the tin and the crispbread pieces into six portions, so everyone had something to nibble on – almost like old times. But as it transpired, this wasn’t the only surprise of the day. All of a sudden, they heard someone slowly clumping down the bunker steps, and in came Wendelin, the mess orderly, lugging with him a steaming stockpot and a stack of tin plates.

‘Captain Fackelmann sends his warmest Christmas greetings… and says that he managed to rustle up another horse from somewhere!’ he announced, puffed but flushed with the bonhomie of the gift-giver, and proceeded to ladle out two large meat dumplings swimming in a yellow broth for each of them. So, they were to enjoy a Christmas dinner after all… ‘Cement balls,’ sighed Herbert, not by way of criticism, but in reverential appreciation of the captain and his magical, philanthropic powers.

After the meal, Breuer got to his feet and, after slowly rubbing the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, addressed them:

‘Comrades…’ he began, but then, finding this familiar word actually too formal for a day like this, corrected himself in slight embarrassment. ‘Dear friends… Dear friends!’ he repeated, this time clearly and resolutely, ‘I’ll be brief. Our thoughts today are far away, with our loved ones. So anything someone like me has to say might well sound superfluous. All I will say, though, my friends, is that this particular Christmas celebration of ours today has a very special significance. We’ve been used to celebrating Christmas since we were children, and when we look back at all those times, our memories merge into one big picture of happiness and joy and brotherly love around the Christmas tree. But we’ve never marked the birth of Our Saviour in quite the way we’re doing here today: far, far away and cut off from our homeland, suffering from hunger and the cold, and surrounded by doom and gloom. But nowhere more than in this sea of hatred, I believe, have we felt the power of the Gospel of Love, which brings us a message of peace, that inner spiritual tranquillity that alone is the source of all true and lasting peace between peoples and nations. And never before has it been clearer to us that we will lose ourselves, that all that’s good within us will wither and die, if we should fail to heed the call and the warning of that message. But the fact that this is in our hands, that the way has been shown to us so clearly, and that we may celebrate our Christmas in this spirit once more as Germans – all this fills us with profound joy, with a calm, unquenchable cheerfulness despite everything, despite the dark place in which we currently find ourselves. I don’t know if we will ever get to celebrate another Christmas. But I do know this: even if he lives to be a hundred and no matter where he might find himself on Christmas Eve, any of us who survives this ordeal will find his thoughts returning time and again to the friends he had in hard times and to this moment in our little bunker outside Stalingrad.’

As Breuer’s words died away, all that could be heard was the soft crackling of the candles. He then shook each of his comrades by the hand. When he got to Lakosch, he kept hold of his hand for a moment longer.

‘Chin up, Lakosch!’ he said warmly. ‘There’ll be peace on Earth again!’

Two large tears ran down the little soldier’s cheeks.

‘Not just like that there won’t be!’ a voice inside him shouted. ‘Not if we don’t do something!’ But he said nothing. Slowly, the candles burned down. Just before guttering out, they flared up brightly, one after another. The pale dribbles of wax solidified to yellowish icicles on the candle sconces. Outside, though, no angel flew by; only death swept over the land, beating its black wings.

The candles on the Christmas tree in the living room of Bailiff Helgers in Gotha were also gradually going out. The quiet celebration and the present-giving were finished, and the family were sitting peaceful and relaxed around the circular mahogany table, over which a nickel-plated standard lamp cast its soft light. From a record-player cabinet came the high voices of the Boys’ Choir of the St Thomas Church in Leipzig:

Captain Gedig had slumped down deep in the wide armchair. He was wearing stirrup pants and had crossed his legs. The breast pocket of his short tunic was bedecked with medals. He was gazing absent-mindedly at a large map of Europe on the wall and listening to the happy voices of the children, which were just fading away. His young face displayed an uncharacteristic earnestness. He had just completed the Senior Adjutants’ Training Course at the army staff college in Berlin, after which he had come to see his fiancée for two days and spend Christmas Eve with her. His train was due to leave at three o’clock in the morning. He carried in his pocket the special certification from the leader of the training course authorizing him to fly into the Stalingrad Cauldron. Bailiff Helgers, an elderly pensioner who, as befitted a civil servant of the old school, was a stickler for doing things by the book, was leafing through the latest edition of Meyers Encyclopaedia , a Christmas present from his wife. Frau Helgers, visibly touched by the sufferings of the war and already somewhat matronly, sat bent over her knitting frame, working with nimble fingers on the flower pattern of a cushion cover. Eva Helgers, her daughter, had been observing her fiancé’s abstracted face with hidden anxiety. Now she got up and went over to the gramophone to put on a new record. Aged just twenty, she was already a popular and successful teacher at a sport and gymnastics school. Her platinum blonde hair, oddly at variance with her dark eyes, lent her small, lightly tanned face a unique allure. ‘You’ve hardly eaten a thing, young man,’ said the old lady, looking up from her knitting to cast a worried eye at the captain. ‘Have a bit of this chocolate. Kurt sent us it from Holland for Christmas. I’m sure you won’t find anything as tasty as this in Russia in a hurry. Yes, if our boy didn’t give us a bit of a helping hand every now and then, we wouldn’t have had much to offer in the way of Christmas treats this year. It’s hard trying to get by just on our ration cards…’

The old gentleman passed one of the weighty tomes of the encyclopaedia over to Captain Gedig.

‘Have a look at this, why don’t you? It’s a magnificent work. Colour plates incorporated into the text, that’s a real novelty! And they’ve completely re-edited it according to National Socialist principles. The publishers went beyond the call of duty there.’

‘Just so long as it gives you pleasure, Father,’ Frau Helgers beamed at her husband. Eva had gone to lean over the captain’s chair. She put her arm round his shoulders and craned over him to look at the book. Her fingers played coquettishly over the two gold stars on his epaulette. She hummed along with the tender melody coming from the gramophone. A strand of her hair dangled down and brushed her fiancé’s cheek. He looked up at her with a smile.

‘Werner, Darling, you’re going back today,’ she whispered. ‘When will we see one another again?’

Her eyes welled up, wet with tears.

‘Next summer, children! At the latest!’ blustered Herr Helgers, breaking in. ‘If there’s a spring offensive like the one last year, the war’ll be over in no time! So, tell us a bit about Russia, young man.It’s not like you to be so withdrawn.’