Арнольд Цвейг - Outside Verdun

Bent over, he sat there, still shaking his cropped head, his small eyes filled with reflections on the strange ways of the world.

The door gently opened and another soldier entered the cellar. He was lean and so tall that he practically had to duck. Blonde hair, parted on the left, not wearing brads under his soles. His uniform was shabby, and Bertin didn’t at first realise that the man in front of him was an officer, because his epaulettes and sword knot were such a dull grey. Bertin jumped up and stood to attention, hands on his trouser seams.

‘For God’s sake,’ the man said. ‘No need for that performance at the coffin. Are you from his unit?’ And, walking to the foot of the coffin: ‘So it’s come to this, Christel.’ You always were a handsome boy , he thought to himself. Well, be at peace. Sooner or later we’ll all be laid out as you are, only not as comfortably .

Bertin had seldom seen brothers who were less alike. Eberhard Kroysing, a sapper lieutenant, folded his bony hands over the peak of his cap and didn’t try to hide the two tears that fell from his eyes. Bertin withdrew quietly, giving the dead boy’s face a last tender look, himself now choked up with sadness and letting it show.

‘Stay, stay,’ boomed Lieutenant Kroysing’s deep voice. ‘We needn’t drive each other away. In any case the lid will be closed in a minute. Have a look and see if the pall bearers are coming.’

Bertin understood and turned round. The lieutenant kissed his little brother on the forehead. Got a lot to apologise to you for, little fellow , he thought. It wasn’t very easy growing up next to me, under me. And how come you, the baby of the family, got to look so much like our mother, while I only looked like Papa?

Outside, there was the sound of approaching boots. Two orderlies walked in. They were used to their work and didn’t observe the niceties at first, but they quietened down a bit when they saw the lieutenant and took the other two coffins away first – rough boxes made of spruce wood. Bertin helped them through the door and up the stairs to give the brother some time alone.

When the strangers were outside, Eberhard Kroysing took his small cigar cutter from his trouser pocket and cut a lock of hair from his brother’s temple – for his mother. He carefully hid it in his flat wallet. He didn’t want to break off his dialogue with the little one. ‘Did you really have to be so jealous of my stamp collection?’ he asked. ‘Did we have to quarrel constantly? Perhaps we could have had a decent adult friendship? Behold, how good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in unity! ’ he said, quoting Dr Luther’s translation of the Bible. That was a pious wish. ‘Our family has been unlucky. No one will visit the beautiful family grave in the protestant cemetery in Nuremberg. You’ll be buried here in catholic soil, and I’ll most likely be eaten by the rats after the last shell has burst. Allons, let’s shut this hut up, so we can perform our final duty to you, my boy.’ And, choking on dry sobs, he kissed the little one once again on his cold mouth and on the dark fluff of his beard, and then fit the lid over the long box and screwed the corners down with practised fingers. When Bertin came back with the two orderlies, an officer, cap on head, strode stiffly past them into the land of the living where the slanting sun beat down.

The burial was a mundane affair, cloaked in a certain solemnity. The three fallen heroes were blessed by an army chaplain, whose cassock barely covered the uniform he normally wore. Delegations from the affected units led by sergeants had been drafted in. The Bavarian ASC men brought a wreath of beech twigs – a last greeting from the standby detachment at Chambrettes-Ferme, none of whom had been given leave to attend the funeral. The three coffins were placed on top of each other, and Bertin caught himself sighing with relief; little Kroysing was lowered in last and wouldn’t have to bear the burden of others even in death. As the other two dead men had been artillery drivers hit on their way to the ammunitions store, their comrades’ carabines fired a last salvo over the grave for all three. Then the funeral party hastily dispersed among Billy’s canteens to seize the rare opportunity to buy chocolate and jam, and raise a few glasses.

A hospital sergeant came up to Lieutenant Kroysing. The company had asked for his brother’s effects and had already collected them, and he gave him a list, which Kroysing glanced at absent-mindedly and put in his pocket. In the few seconds that this took, Bertin struggled with and made a decision. He walked briskly towards his friend’s brother and asked to have a word with him. Eberhard Kroysing gave him a rather scornful look. These poor ASC men exploited any contact with an officer to ask advice about their petty concerns or air a grievance. This one here, who was obviously an academic sort and a Jew, would no doubt want to pester him about leave or some such. ‘Fire away, man,’ he said, ‘but make it snappy or you’ll get separated from your comrades.’

‘I don’t belong to that unit,’ said Bertin carefully, ‘and I would like to speak to you alone for 10 minutes, Lieutenant. It’s about your brother,’ he added, seeing Kroysing’s dismissive expression.

Billy had been shot to pieces and patched up badly. They were both silent as they walked through the streets, both thinking about the freshly dug gave. ‘It was nice,’ said the lieutenant at length, ‘that you sent him the wreath.’

‘It came from his men at Chambrettes-Ferme, where he died. That’s where I got to know him – early in the morning the day before yesterday.’

‘You only knew my brother for such a short time and yet you came to his funeral? I really must thank your sergeant major.’

Bertin smiled weakly. ‘My orderly room refused me leave to come here. I came off my own bat.’

‘That’s a strange state of affairs,’ said Kroysing, as they went through the door of the officers’ mess, a kind of inn for officers with soldiers serving.

Several gentlemen in shiny epaulettes looked over in surprise as the sapper lieutenant and ASC private squeezed in opposite each other at the table for two in the window alcove. Such fraternisation between officers and men was undesirable, forbidden in fact. But the poor bastards in the trenches didn’t always behave in line with orders from the administration behind the lines. At any rate, the tall lieutenant with the Iron Cross, first class didn’t look like he would appreciate a lecture.

Indeed no. From Bertin’s first words, Eberhard Kroysing’s face looked rather set. Bertin asked if he had known that his brother had problems at his company. Certainly, said Kroysing, but when you were stuck in the sapper depot at Douaumont, under daily fire from the French, you weren’t overly interested in minor squabbles among NCOs at another company. The wine here was excellent. Bertin thought so too. He drank and asked if it had occurred to Lieutenant Kroysing that there could be a connection between those squabbles and Christoph Kroysing’s death. At that, the lieutenant’s eyes widened. ‘Listen,’ he said in a low voice, ‘men fall here every day like chestnuts from a tree. Imagine if everyone tried to find connections…!’

‘In connection with this case, might I explain how I got to know your brother and what he told me in confidence?’

Eberhard Kroysing looked into his wine glass, twirling it lightly between his fingers, while Bertin uttered one considered phrase after another, his eyes on Kroysing’s face. Bertin’s chest pressed against the marble table, which was a little too high for the low seats. He sensed that the young man opposite wasn’t convinced, but he couldn’t stay quiet. The main part of the room echoed with the booming laughter of boozers.