Арнольд Цвейг - Outside Verdun

Educated workers knew that the leaders of minority socialist groups from different countries had met that year and the previous year in the Swiss towns of Zimmerwald and Kiental – individuals and representatives of small groups who rejected their parties’ majority view in support of the war. Among their number had been the German member of parliament Georg Ledebour, an elderly man respected even by his political foes. The new passports had been introduced by then, and the two most dangerous malcontents, the MP Liebknecht and the writer Rosa Luxemburg, either weren’t allowed a visa or were already in prison. The meeting had already sent out an appeal to the workers of the world in 1915, saying that for them this world war was the brutal consequence of the economic tensions and conquering greed that were the very essence of the capitalist world order. German newspapers of all hues had mocked the Zimmerwalders’ obstinate refusal to face reality; all around Europe men battled for victory, something even the stupidest farm boy could understand, while these café intellectuals wafted through the storm giving lectures on why the difference between war and peace didn’t mean much to the workers. If the workers’ position vis-à-vis business was contemptible in peacetime, they said, the war only made it worse, because the fathers and sons of the working classes suffered each and every day, and so first and foremost, down with the war. ‘Tell that to the French!’ proclaimed the German papers. ‘Preach to the Germans!’ said the French. And soon the minor event to which Frau Naumann had bravely alluded was engulfed in silence. Fingers quivering, Naumann the barber now opened the drawer in the table where he kept his razors. It was lined with old newspapers. He took out a small sheet. It was slightly yellowed, highly inconspicuous and had been screwed up and flattened out again. Pahl read it:

‘Where is the prosperity you were promised at the start of the war? The real consequences of this war are already all too apparent: misery and deprivation, unemployment and death, malnourishment and disease. For years, for decades, the costs of this war will sap nations’ strength and destroy the hard-won achievements that have given your lives greater dignity. Spiritual and moral desolation, economic catastrophe and reactionary politics – those are the blessings brought by this disgusting international wrestling match, as with all those that went before…’

Pahl’s face went grey. His ugly features shone with emotion and he felt for his heart. Somewhere in the world, in free Switzerland, it was possible to think, say and print these things. Mankind was not entirely sunk in darkness. A tiny glimmer of truth still shone somewhere… Naumann, fascinated against his better judgement, had read the lines too over Pahl’s shoulder. ‘Hey, hurry up,’ he said, starting suddenly, ‘someone could come by at any minute.’

Lebehde silently tucked a towel into the neck of his jumper and wet his face. ‘Let him read it by himself, razor hands,’ he said. ‘We know what it says.’

Naumann went over to him, soaped him up and said to Pahl: ‘We must be mad. Close the drawer. Open the door and read it to yourself. Put it in the army newspaper.’

Pahl did so. The dangerous piece of paper covered the journalist Edmund Goldwasser’s report about the crown princess’s gracious visit to the Cecilia Hospital at Potsdam. He read: ‘In this intolerable position…’ He saw them sitting round the table, these representatives of the suffering nations, their brows furrowed, their faces clouded in thought, as they discussed the declaration of war for which they were prepared to go to prison. They declared war on hatred among nations, on all forms of national madness, on all those trying to prolong the war, and called for an alliance across borders, for mutual assistance among the oppressed classes. They pledged to take up the fight for peace – a peace that renounced any violation of the people’s rights and freedoms. The unshakeable foundation of their demand was the right to national self-determination, and they called on the subject classes to rescue civilisation and fight for the sacred goals of socialism in the implacable class struggle – their true purpose – with the same total fearlessness they had displayed since the outbreak of war in fighting each other.

Outside, someone was meticulously cleaning his boots, having evidently stepped off the boardwalk that made it possible to negotiate the camp into the reddish brown clabber underneath. Pahl calmly folded up the piece of newspaper and clamped it under his arm. ‘Let me take it,’ he said to Naumann. ‘I’ll look after it.’

‘You’re welcome to it,’ he replied. ‘I’ll be glad to see the back of it.’

The door opened and in came Sergeant Kropp, disgruntled to see two men ahead of him in the queue. But Pahl the typesetter kindly offered to come back later, saying that he had more time than the sergeant and tomorrow was another day. ‘You’ll find your own way back, Karl,’ he said and left. Outside he stopped, closed his eyes and breathed. He had heard a call and understood it. The stars might be covered in cloud but they were still up there. And as sure as there were stars in the sky, the triumph of reason advanced behind the struggling working classes, and the welfare of nations, understood properly, was inextricably linked to that struggle. Yes, it was time to act. If by any chance the orderly room had been telling the truth when it had reported that industrial companies at home could no longer claim men fit for service, then he would have to offer a little sacrifice and make himself unfit for service. A couple of toes or a finger – carried out with the utmost care of course on account of military prison… The laws of the ruling classes had a thousand eyes, but intelligence had more – and it had wings. Warmth flooded into him from the newspaper clipping, which he had pressed against his heart. He would have liked to dance, shout, sing: ‘So Comrades, come rally…’

When Karl Lebehde returned to the barracks a little later, smoothly shaved, he grinned and said that ass Kropp had only wanted his hair cut so he could make a good impression on the company commander the following afternoon when he brought Bertin in for punishment. Man’s stupidity was bottomless and its subtle variations were a constant source of amazement.

THINGS NOW TOOK on the hyper-reality of a fantasy, the solid outlines and soft, fluid forms. Unrest was in the air when two small groups of sinners were lined up outside Acting Lieutenant Graßnick’s hut after lunch. On the left was Sergeant Kropp with his closely cropped hair and Private Bertin, whose platoon leader, Sergeant Schwerdtlein, was planted next to him in case a character witness should be required. On the right was Sergeant Böhne, whose friend Näglein had pulled the prank of reporting two shirkers from his platoon. The deaf carpenter Karsch and little Vehse the upholsterer had sloped off into a dugout when fetching ammunition to avoid exploding shells and hadn’t rejoined their comrades until the march back. It was the second time Karsch had done this. He had an incurable fear of those wild iron birds that ripped into men’s bowels with a deafening crash. Böhne moved restlessly from one foot to the other, twirled his moustache and fumed inwardly at Näglein, who had thrown his weight around by making a report rather than letting him, Böhne, deal with the matter.

There were rumblings on the horizon all around the camp. But the disturbances were no longer coming from German guns – enemy explosions had taken their place. Something was up – nobody suspected what. It would have been a wise moment to remember the old proverb that eating stimulates the appetite. The French were thinking of replying to the Kaiser’s peace offer with the spears of their bayonets. As they were much better off in terms of ammunition and relative troop numbers than eight weeks previously, they fully expected to reach their goal – a line running from Pepper ridge through Chambrettes-Ferme to Bezonaux, that short front right across the Meuse heights, whose advantages certain gentlemen in Pierrepont belonging to the German General Staff would learn to appreciate. The attack rolled forward slowly; when it peaked the men in the barracks and among the ammunition dumps might notice something. Until then, profound peace reigned.