Арнольд Цвейг - Outside Verdun

AS SISTER KLÄRE made her way to room 19 to do some ironing as promised, who should be carrying her ironing board, a joyful smile of farewell on his chubby face despite the white bandage round his neck, but Father Lochner. As before, the divisional Catholic chaplain from the other bank sported flying coat tails and a violet collar. ‘Lieutenant!’ he cried, more Rhenish than ever, ‘Ah’m mad happy to see you, so I am.’ (The phrase ‘mad happy’ could cover a wide range of insanity.) And as he carefully laid the white-covered board, which was almost as a tall as a man, against the wall, he took Kroysing’s right hand in both of his and shook it for such a long time that Kroysing almost began to look uncomfortable. He briefly greeted Bertin then introduced himself to the other two patients, sat down on a bed, slightly out of breath, and watched as Sister Kläre erected a bridge between the table and the window frame, while Bertin, kneeling on the table, carefully plugged the iron into an adaptor. For a moment, the room was plunged into darkness. He heard a voice whispering in his ear: ‘I won’t leave you in the lurch.’ When the light bulb flashed on a second later, Sister Kläre was busily arranging her washing as though nothing had happened. It was very nice of the nurse, thought Bertin, as he sat down on a stool in the corner and listened to Kroysing and Father Lochner’s talking – it was really very nice of Sister Kläre to console him and offer him her help. But she had clearly overestimated her range, to use of a favourite word of Kroysing’s. Posnanski had had to leave the matter with a representative, and by God they needed one, and he was sure to be a more powerful man than anyone Sister Kläre might be able to produce. Well, he wouldn’t agonise about it any more. The judge advocate had probably meant his divisional commander or someone else who had enough influence with Group East to reverse Herr Jansch’s cocky refusal. In any case, it was very nice to sit here freshly bathed and lice-free, to doze a little and enjoy the moment. Because the lice would get stuck into him again that night. His undeloused sleeping bag or his neighbour Lebehde or the man under him would see to that. Lice were as unavoidable as fate, and as long as you were ensconced in communal accommodation and the misery of war you couldn’t get away from them. And he mustn’t forget that Sister Kläre had asked him to write a dedication in her copy of Love at Last Sight .

Father Lochner was at the hospital to be treated for a carbuncle, an ugly deep red swelling on his neck. He’d made the difficult decision to have it lanced and he’d have to prevail on the doctors’ kindness a few more times. So, even godless doctors were doing God’s work with their dexterous hands.

Kroysing was almost irritated by the priest and his good mood. What was this outsider doing breaking in on this private hour? It was bad enough to have to share the vision of Sister Kläre with his comrades, her coming and goings with the ironing board, those duties of a maid – a maid he could regard more directly and desire more keenly now her secret had been revealed. But Father Lochner was so overjoyed to find Kroysing unhurt after all the adventures around Douaumont…

‘Unhurt!’ cried Kroysing indignantly, pointing to the thick bandages on his foot. ‘Hind paw.’ That was nothing, insisted Father Lochner, nothing at all compared to the dreadful possibilities he’d escaped. ‘Thanks,’ said Kroysing. ‘It was quite enough for me.’

Not to be deterred, Father Lochner pointed to the thousands upon thousands of men who had given their lives for the Fatherland. Kroysing had fared extremely well and now he would see the homeland again and return to his profession in one of the factories essential to the war effort… ‘Definitely,’ Kroysing nodded. ‘I can’t wait to return to my profession. My profession is being a soldier, and I’m going to transfer to the air force.’

‘Oh,’ said Father Lochner startled, that was very admirable but he had more than fulfilled his duty and should now think about himself and his future.

‘Rubbish!’ retorted Kroysing, as the others listened intently. He wasn’t talking about duty; he was talking about his own enjoyment. Surely the priest knew that he was a heathen, an avowed disciple of the religion of killing. Instead of hobbling around on the ground, he wanted to soar up into the clouds and rain avenging fire down on the heads of his enemies.

Father Lochner hung his head sadly. He had hoped Kroysing’s afflictions might have mellowed him. And his private dispute? he asked. He didn’t know if he could mention it openly?

‘My quarrel with that scoundrel Niggl? Say what you like. Everyone in this room knows about it or is a fellow sufferer. Nothing has changed, Father. I’ll hunt him down. And if he’s promoted to major soon…’

‘He’s been promoted,’ Father Lochner broke in.

‘…then he’ll be over all of us as a result of his actions.’

There was pause. Sister Kläre let the iron rest on its tripod for a moment. They all looked at him, this wild hunter, who admitted his vendetta so openly, simply pushing aside the New and Old Testaments, both of which replaced individual and clan vengeance with the rule of law and public justice. Then the iron began to steam again. Father Lochner folded his hands in resignation: in that case the matter must be left to Providence and hopefully it would turn out well for Lieutenant Kroysing. He just hoped that when the time came he’d have as peaceful an end as that little sergeant from Douaumont three days ago in the field hospital at Chaumont… Kroysing, who’d been lying down, slowly pulled himself up. ‘Do you mean my friend Sergeant Süßmann is dead?’

Yes , Father Lochner nodded. That was the name. That young sapper who guided you to the infantry position, the very same .

‘Impossible,’ groaned Kroysing hoarsely, clearing his throat. ‘He went to a training course in Brandenburg.’

But, quietly implacable, the priest insisted: he must have been sent back into the field in the meantime. Since the beginning of the year, training courses had increasingly been held in the communications zone. As though drawn by a magnet, Bertin had moved past the ironing nurse and now stood at the head of Kroysing’s bed. ‘Süßmann,’ he said simply. ‘Our little Süßmann.’

According to Father Lochner it had been an accident during grenade throwing training for recruits and had happened very quickly. One of them, an elderly man, couldn’t get to grips with the grenade, and Süßmann stepped out of cover to show him how to handle it one more time, having been assured by the future sapper that he hadn’t taken the pin out. Then as Süßmann walked towards him the man dropped the hand grenade and ran away. Immediate explosion, half of which caught Süßmann, the other the unfortunate recruit, a hireling from Mecklenburg. He died immediately, but Süßmann lasted until the evening after he was admitted to hospital and didn’t suffer much. Dr Baer, the military Rabbi, had been with him at the end. Between two morphine injections, he’d dictated a few sentences, including one for Lieutenant Kroysing. ‘Write to my parents that it was worth it and to Lieutenant Kroysing that it wasn’t. It was a swindle.’ Apart from a few wild utterances in his death throes, an exemplary soldier had gone to his final rest, and his memory would certainly be preserved by the grateful Fatherland.

Kroysing turned to Bertin. ‘Our little Süßmann,’ he repeated sadly. ‘Escaped twice from the hell of Douaumont only to be done for by some hick from Mecklenburg. And he was so sure – so sure – that death had spat him out once and for all and he’d probably outlive the Wandering Jew. No, I don’t want to hear any more today.’ And he turned to the wall.