Kitabı oku: «Officer Factory», sayfa 8

“I hardly knew Lieutenant Barkow, General.”

I knew him better,” said the General with a slight huskiness in his voice. “He was an excellent officer, dedicated to his work, and, in spite of his youth, an extremely sensible man. He was an expert on all types of equipment, and particularly on explosives. He had already carried out a number of complicated bridge demolitions on the eastern front.”

“In that case, General, I don't understand how this accident could have happened.”

“It wasn't an accident,” said the General. “It was murder.” With a quiet gesture of finality the General had played his trump card.

“Murder, General?”

There seemed no place for such a word in the sober atmosphere of that room. It didn't go with the General's face. It simply didn't belong here.

“I wish it hadn't been necessary to use such a word,” said the General. “You’re the second person I've used it to. The only other person who knows what I think is Judge-Advocate Wirrmann. I had the Inspector of Training Units second him here to carry out a full investigation.”

“And does the Judge-Advocate agree with your theory, General? Does he think it's murder, too?”

“No,” said the General. “But that doesn't alter the fact that it was. Cold-blooded murder. I know this indirectly from Lieutenant Barkow himself, because before his death he was dropping unmistakable hints which I dismissed at the time as utterly impossible. But all his conjectures have been borne out by the facts. Right, then, you will concern yourself with this affair, Lieutenant Krafft. I will put all the relevant documents at your disposal, and you will examine all the evidence. You will be able to discuss anything you like with me. And of course I don't need to emphasize that the whole matter is entirely confidential.”

“Why are you telling me this, General?”

“So that you can search for and find the murderer,” said Modersohn. “He can only be in Section H for Heinrich, that's to say in your own section, Lieutenant Krafft. And I shall expect you to complete your task successfully. You can count on my support. That is all for to-day.”

INTERMEDIATE REPORT NO. 2:

The Curriculum Vitae of Captain Eric Feders, or

Patterns of accident

Born on 17^th July 1915 in Aalen, Württemberg. My father was Constantine Feders, a Protestant pastor. My mother was Eva Maria Feders and her maiden name was Knotek. I grew up in Aalen.

The first thing I can remember clearly is a pair of folded hands, and a voice that always seems to be intoning. The words of this voice are full of beauty and meaning. This is my father: dark clothes, snow-white linen, a solemn, dignified face. A strong smell of tobacco comes off him making me feel slightly sick. But then, on Sundays, the smell of sour wine as well. A full, rich laugh when I am touched and looked at.

Organ sounds all about me—triumphant, tempestuous, rumbling ominously. A continuous assault on my eardrums. Finally a muffled, high-pitched whistle, a stifling yell, a rasping rattle. Father holds me up against the air valves of the organ. “Splendid!" he cries. “Isn’t that splendid!" And I cry too, wildly, desperately, continuously. “A pity," says my father with disappointment. “He isn't musical."'

Mother is like a shadow, very soft, very quiet, very gentle, even when she cries. But Mother only cries when she thinks she is quite alone. And she is rarely alone, because I am there most of the time, behind the curtains, in the corner' by the cupboard, under the sofa. And then I come out and ask, " Why are you crying, Mother?" and she says, “But, my boy, I'm not crying." Then I go to my father and ask, “Why is Mother crying?" and my father says: “But my boy, Mother isn't crying! Are you crying, Mother?" “Of course not," she says. And I say, “Why do people tell lies here?" And then my father beats me, because I have broken the Fourth Commandment. There isn't a commandment which says thou shalt not lay hands on children.

The son of Hörnle the manufacturer always wants to play with me because he's not allowed to play at home in the factory. At Hörnle's place they roll and cut sheet metal, and every now and again, a finger and a hand get chopped off as well. In church, of course, nothing like this can happen. Besides there's no one to keep an eye on us here except when a service is in progress. But Hörnle always wants to climb up into places, preferably into the tower where the bells are and where he likes hanging out of the little belfry windows—first with one foot, then with both, and finally with his whole body. “You do the same," Hörnle says to me. “If you don't you're a coward!" “I don't know whether I'm a coward or not," I say,” I only know I'm not an idiot." And this is true. Because Hörnle loses his balance and breaks every bone in his body.

“How could such a thing happen?" cries my father. “Why didn't you watch out?" “Why should I watch out?" I ask, “I wasn't hanging out of the window myself." “My God!" says my father, “what sort of a son have I brought into the world?" And I ask myself the same question.

In 1921 I went to the primary school in Aalen and in 1925 to the secondary school, where I finally matriculated in 1934, one year late. Apart from getting a year behind in this way there was nothing exceptional about my schooldays.

In the church jumping competition I manage eight feet six. This is in fact a local record, but then along comes a fellow from Göppingen who's staying here for the summer holidays and does a whole two inches higher—though only after a good deal of training. These church jumps are performed on the end of the bell ropes. You pull at the rope and let yourself swing up with it. The person who pulls hardest reaches the greatest height and incidentally produces the finest peal. Bets are laid too, and my friends almost always win. “You little blasphemers!" my father shouts at us, when he discovers why his bells are always ringing so merrily.

Schnorr, an assistant master at the secondary school, is a frequent visitor to our house. “He’s a highly educated man," my father tells me,” and you must show him respect. Besides, he's a friend of mine, and later when you go on to secondary school he'll be your teacher. So see you treat him with respect!" But I can't stand this man Schnorr. He keeps on asking me questions like how much does nineteen times eighteen mate, or how do you spell engineer, and what was the date of the Battle of the Teutoburg Forest. And every time I see him he has more questions for me. I try to keep out of his way as soon as he shows up.

Almost worse than this fellow Schnorr is a girl of the neighborhood called Marion Michalski. This girl Marion pesters me wherever I go. She will never believe what I say about anything and even doubts my church jumping record.

The worst part about it is that Marion is three years younger than me and is really just a little child. But she won't leave me alone. She has pigtails and a silly laugh and always thinks she knows better. But there are some things in her favor: she's the daughter of the burgomaster for instance and he can give orders to the police, which can be a great advantage.

When I go on to secondary school this man Schnorr is my form master. Which is bad. For now I can no longer keep out of the way when he shows up, and he keeps on asking and asking and asking questions. But soon I learn always to give him some sort of answer, even if, according to Schnorr, it isn't always the right one. “That son of yours isn't much of a scholar," Schnorr tells my father. This worries my father very much and he starts drinking heavily; and Schnorr is worried too and drinks even more heavily than my father. Then a glassy look comes into his eyes, his speech thickens, he dribbles and slobbers and slips off his chair. “He’s not feeling well," says my father heavily. “Take him home." And I take my sledge because there's snow outside. We load Schnorr on to the sledge and I drive off into the park, where I put him down beside the war memorial. In my view it's the business of the police to take him on from there.

From that day on Schnorr asks me many fewer questions than before. Sometimes he acts as if I weren't in his class at all. But he doesn't keep this up for long. I notice he pays more and more attention to my written work. Just before I'm due to be moved up to the upper second, he finds seven mistakes, underlines them in red, and writes at the end: “Poor." And this puts paid to my chances of a move. But I find some red ink and underline two more mistakes—where there aren't any of course—and then go up to Schnorr and say: " Excuse me, sir. There are nine mistakes marked here, but I've only made seven." Schnorr says: "Impossible," counts them up again, blushes almost as red as the ink, and then says: “You’re quite right. It's wrong. I'm sorry." And then he crosses out the two extra marks. “Excuse me, sir,". I continue. " If I got ' poor' for nine mistakes then surely I must get a better mark now that I've only got seven, or isn't that right?" And of course I do get a better mark and I'm moved up after all.

The church becomes our stronghold. I've had extra keys made for every lock in it at the verger's expense. I caught him one day trying to pinch the Communion wine, since when I've been able to do what I like with him. And we squat there on the carpet talking of God and the world and of life, particularly the latter, and drinking a great deal. Until this bitch Marion Michalski comes and forces her company on us. What is it she wants anyway?

“This man Ley is a filthy pig," I say in front of the whole class. So Schnorr can't overlook the remark but has to go to the headmaster about it. The headmaster runs to the local education authority. A commission is set up to investigate the matter. But I say: “There’s absolutely no doubt about it, this fellow Ley is a filthy pig." “Remember now, Feders, you're talking about one of the leaders of the Reich!" shouts the school inspector. “I’m talking about a filthy pig," I say. “Because this man Ley pissed out of a car as it was passing a whole group of Hitler Youth, who had to jump aside to avoid getting wet. I saw it with my own eyes!" “One doesn't say things like that," declared the inspector decisively. “No true German boy would believe such a thing!" This is the year in which I am not moved up, ostensibly because I'm weak in history.

The best thing about Schnorr is undoubtedly his wife. She always smiles when she sees me, and her smile grows warmer and warmer each year. When I'm in the upper first, she's particularly friendly. “You’ve grown into a fine young man," she says when I bring the exercise books to the Schnorrs' apartment. “Let’s see if you've any muscles." “Quite a lot," I say. “All over." And she feels them for herself. She has plenty of time for this because Schnorr is teaching that afternoon. Her voice grows husky and her eyes grow large. She seems to lose her balance for a moment and I catch her and lay her on the couch. “Stay with me," she says. And I do because she shows me everything I want to see and teaches me a lot of things I know nothing about as yet. Then she says: “What are you thinking about?" “About the written work for the matriculation," I answer. “Can’t you find out what the questions are going to be?" “I’d do anything for you," she says. And she does it.

“Shame on you!" says Marion Michalski indignantly. “How can you do such a thing! And with her of all people! Shame on you 1 I never want to see you again. Never! "

“You make me ashamed of you," said my father. “It can't go on like this. You need to have some order and discipline knocked into you. You must go into the army."

In 1935 I volunteered for the Wehrmacht, with the intention of becoming an officer. After the usual two years' basic training I passed out top from the Military Academy in Potsdam and in 1938 was promoted second lieutenant.

It's all quite simple: I have useful muscles, a strong heart, and my lungs would outdo a pair of bellows. I can run faster, jump further, march longer than most men. Nothing tires me.

It's all quite easy, so long as one remembers one simple basic principle: stupidity is trumps, the stupid represent the norm. The most primitive oaf of a ranker has to be able to understand what's going on—everyone else has to adjust their point of view to him. Even in his sleep the soldier must be able to shoot effectively or do whatever else is demanded of him—then everything's fine. For a convoy always proceeds at the speed of its slowest vehicle. An army is as good as its most half-witted private. This has to be understood if life is to be tolerable. You have to appreciate this standard if you are to achieve a corresponding sense of superiority. Soldiering is based on the lowest common denominator—its highest peak is represented by a slick mediocrity.

Practically speaking, that is all you need to know. The soldiers among whom I find myself remind me of a patient herd of cattle—useful material for the slaughterhouse of war. The non-commissioned officers above me who bellow and nag, bluster and bully, are simply, either by inclination or instinct, the leaders of the herd. The officers I'll be mixing with, who spend their time organizing, planning, supervising —they're simply the designers, the engineers, the switch controllers for large concentrations of human machinery. Ah, my friends, a man who has grasped all this isn't going to be impressed by anything.

But it's only the Wehrmacht which functions along clear, simple, predictable lines like this, not life itself. That's a complicated business even if it doesn't always seem so. An example of its complexity is provided by Marion Michalski. She's there when I get home. She follows me around even if I don't want her to. She bothers me whenever she can. “What is it you want from me?" I ask her. "I want anything you want," says Marion. And she says this as we're walking through the park on the way to the cinema. There's a full moon above us. I can see her face very clearly in all its details—her eyes, staring at me, her lips slightly parted, and the whole framed by her long loose hair which reaches below her shoulders. And then there's the smell of chestnuts in bloom, and growing stronger and stronger, the scent of Marion's skin as she comes closer and sidles up to me. "I want anything you want," she repeats. And I say: "I want to make love to you, here, on the grass." “Then do," she says. “It’s time you did!"

Everything would be easy, child's play; one could cope with everything with one hand tied behind one's back, if it weren't for this girl Marion. One's military duties—barely more than a primitive way of enjoying oneself. Preparing to become an officer—ridiculously easy, kindergarten stuff. The various exertions on the barrack square, on maneuvers, on the ranges—all child's play to Feders. Even as a corporal I know more than any lieutenant. And the girls of the garrison towns of Stuttgart, Tübingen and Göppingen are nice and pretty and uncomplicated. It's positively touching, the trouble they take. “Show me what you can do," I say. And they say: “What’s the matter with you? Who are you trying to forget?" And I say: "I've already forgotten whoever I wanted to forget."

But it isn't true. I can't forget. However hard they try, no one comes up to Marion. With Marion everything's always so easy. Nothing is ever awkward or goes wrong. I come to her and there she is. I want to make love to her and she's ready for me.

Then I am promoted second lieutenant. When I come home Marion is waiting at the station. She comes up and stands in front of me and looks at me. “Marion," I say,” will you marry me?" “Yes, you idiot," she says, " I've always wanted to, Even as a child I wanted to."

I married Marion Michalski in the spring of 1939. At the beginning of the war I was given a company and after the campaign in France was promoted first lieutenant. After being wounded in January 1943 I was made a captain and was posted to No. 5 Officers' Training School. Decorations: Knight's Cross, etc.

Death appears on the scene, physical hardships increase, everything grows more and more unpleasant, but otherwise war brings little change. The methods remain the same. That's the mistake. Because no war follows the same pattern as the previous one. I get my company across the bridge over the Marne. I rally the remnants of two other companies whose officers have been killed. I secure the hill on the far side of the river. “Withdraw all forces immediately," radios the divisional commander. I radio back: "A withdrawal is tactically senseless and could only be carried out with heavy casualties." "I order you to withdraw your troops at once on pain of court martial," radios the General. And I radio back: “Strong radio interference, staying put." The next day the divisional commander is in a towering rage. Every other word is "court martial." The day after that I'm awarded the Knight's Cross. “You haven't deserved it!" says the General. “But I've got it all the same," I reply.

My leave with Marion, my wife, is one long ecstasy. We only have one room, and we hardly ever leave it. We lie in bed together far into the morning and get back again in the early afternoon. The fourteen days race by. “I’ll always love you," I say. And Marion says: “I’ll never forget what it's like to be with you—it's wonderful." “But when I'm gone, Marion?" “I’ll never forget what it's like!"

The M.O. stands in front of my bed and asks: “Well, and how are we today, Captain?" “What’s the matter with me?" I ask him. “Please tell me quite honestly—what is the matter with me?" “Well," says the M.O., “at any rate you're lucky. You'll get over your wound, it could have been much worse." “Please don't keep anything from me, Doctor; I want to know the truth." “It’s quite simple," says the other finally. “In a few weeks' time everything will be more or less normal for you—you'll be able to skip about like a two-year-old, except for one small detail. But believe me, my dear fellow; it's a loss which becomes more and more tolerable with the years.

7. THE MAJOR'S WIFE IS INDIGNANT

“Everyone here toes the line sooner or later, Lieutenant Krafft,” said Captain Feders. “Either from cowardice, discernment or plain adaptability.”

He and his newly appointed section officer were making their way together out of barracks and down the hill towards Wildlingen.

“I’m not much of a games player, I'm afraid, Captain. I've never been very good at toeing the line.”

“But you'll learn,” said Captain Feders with conviction.

Major Frey, the officer commanding Number 2 Course, had issued invitations to a “modest little dinner for a small circle of friends.” Now it's true that his dinners were always modest, but the point here was the “small circle of friends.” For Frey had a wife, and she had ambitions as a hostess, though what exactly these were remained obscure.

“She must have read about an officer's social obligations in some novel or other,” said Captain Feders. “But she must also have overlooked the fact that that particular piece of trash was written in the days of the Kaiser.”

“I don't find anything very remarkable about that, Captain. The Kaiser's days are after all half-way to modern times. When I was at the front I had a regimental commander who behaved like Attila, King of the Huns.”

This man Lieutenant Krafft began to interest Captain Feders. He seemed a decent, solid sort of fellow. But the question one couldn't help asking oneself at once was: How long would he manage to survive at the training school? Feders felt sure that the first stick was about to be broken over Krafft's back this very evening. He knew the Major's wife only too well.

“My dear Krafft,” said Captain Feders with a certain amusement. “What is the heat of battle compared with the hatching of social intrigues at home? In battle a man's life is snuffed out like a candle, and that's that. But here one is roasted over a slow wood fire to a beautiful golden brown. With kind words considerately lavished on one into the bargain.”

“And is everyone a potential victim for these primitive rites? Is no one safe?”

“Really, my dear Krafft,” said Captain Feders flippantly,” you must try not to confuse your terms. There's nothing primitive about this, it's a question of tradition.”

“Sometimes the same thing, isn't it, Captain?”

“Of course, my dear fellow, it can be. Tradition is, among other things, the finest excuse in the world for the lazy-minded, a blank cheque for those half-wits who conceal their own incompetence under the dead weight of all that's been handed down to them. But you shouldn't underestimate these people, above all in terms of numbers. Quite a lot of our educational methods date back to Frederick the Great. Clausewitz is regarded as a modern author and Schlieffen as a model of genius. And if the worst comes to the worst, even the experiences of the last war will come into their own—the war, that is, in which they say we weren't beaten, but which we indisputably lost. As for a great part of our accepted social conventions, they go back to the turn of the century!”

They kept in step as they walked along. The barracks lay behind them in the pale light of evening: a broad, bulky shadow dominating the horizon. The houses of the town looked tiny by contrast, like formations of coral that had attached themselves to a rock. The fact that the town had been there several centuries before the barracks was no longer evident. Mountains of cement had desecrated the landscape, and the modern concrete piles of a number of business houses and blocks of flats were beginning to destroy the lovable old face of Wildlingen-am-Main.

“Tell me, my dear Krafft, you're quite a dab at the hand kiss, I expect?” said Captain Feders.

“Is this a military training school or a dancing academy?” asked Krafft.

“You are naïve, my dear fellow,” said Feders with a smile. “You don't seem to realize why Major Frey, our officer commanding Number Two Course, has invited you.”

“Well, not to give any pleasure to me, I'm sure of that. But perhaps he merely wanted to fulfill his social obligations.”

“Hell!” said Feders. “The man just wants to put you through your paces, that's all.”

“And for this purpose he introduces me to his wife?”

“Exactly. He wants, among other things, to test your manners as an officer. Because in the Major's view it is only officers with impeccable manners who are fit to instruct officers of the future. But it's the Major's wife who has the last word. Which is why, my dear fellow, a full-blown formal hand kiss will be not only an act of politeness but also a first convincing proof of your social capabilities.”

“Quite funny that,” said Lieutenant Krafft cautiously.

“You’ll be finding plenty of other things to amuse you here before you're through, you can be sure of that. Officially the hand-kissing is quite optional, but in Major Frey's eyes it is a natural obligation. Particularly where the Major's wife is concerned—she was a von Bendler-Trebitz, you know. Right, then—the charming lady will extend her tiny hand towards you. You grasp it, but without exercising undue pressure. Then you bend over it, Krafft, and for God's sake, and the Major's, doesn’t make the mistake of drawing this charming tiny hand towards you as if you owned it, this would be looked upon as little short of an attempt at rape. You bend over it then and keep yourself at a distance of at least three feet from the lady. You then click your heels and without pursing the lips or even wetting them, sketch out a hand kiss. Somewhere between a quarter and an eighth of an inch is regarded as the correct distance. Now have you got that, my dear fellow try it out today? For sooner or later you'll have to teach it to your cadets in the etiquette class, it’s all part of the curriculum, you know.”

“I’m afraid you're right,” said Lieutenant Krafft. “We’ll be having a lot of fun together.”

“I never cease to admire you, Felicitas,” said Major Frey to his wife. “It’s really fabulous the way you manage to arrange everything,”

Frau Frey lowered her eyes modestly. “Oh, it's really nothing,” she demurred.

This was true—it really wasn't very much. The table was laid, the wine stood ready, all just as usual, and, as usual, none of these preparations were the work of Frau Frey, but of her niece, as the Major knew perfectly well.

This niece, a poor relation who looked like one and on whom Frau Frey had graciously taken pity, worked in the Frey household as a servant. She was a capable, willing, undemanding sort of girl, and although Frau Frey didn't actually pay her any wages she hoped to find a husband for her, an officer, in due course.

“What sort of man is this Lieutenant Krafft?” asked the Major's wife.

Frey didn't quite know the answer to this, though this didn't prevent him from telling her. Average,” he said. “Possibly a little above the average. We'll manage to make something of him. Sooner or later everyone comes to heel.”

“Married?”

“Not as far as I know.”

“I’ll take a closer look at him,” said Frau Felicitas.

The Major nodded meekly. He knew what that meant. She would take a closer look at this fellow Krafft to see if he would do for their niece, Barbara Bendler-Trebitz.

“Barbara!” cried Frau Felicitas peremptorily, and their niece appeared at once.

She had a round, friendly, innocent moon face with shy eyes. “Here I am,” she said agreeably in a soft chirpy voice.

“For goodness' sake, take that apron off before the gentlemen arrive. You should take more trouble with your appearance, child. Wear a white apron. And try and move gracefully.”

“Yes, of course,” said Barbara, and disappeared.

The Major watched her go with a sad shake of his head, which wasn't intended as any reproach to his wife. This would have been unthinkable, for he had nothing but gratitude and respect for her. She came from a really high-class family and was the owner of a sizeable property in Silesia, which was being run at the moment by an impoverished relative who was exempt from war service.

Frey had in fact a great deal to thank his wife for. For instance it was positively touching the way she helped him in his career. No commanding officer could have had a more devoted wife. And then again, there was the loving care with which she had furnished this house: Wildlingen-am-Main, Marktplatz 7. An old, elegant, romantic building in the Franconian style, solid and sound, and yet at the same time cozy and with a charm all its own, it might have been built specially for Felicitas Frey, née Blender-Trebitz.

“This girl Barbara,” the Major ventured to remark. “She’s a nice girl, but remarkably uncommunicative, don't you find?” “She’ll make a good wife and mother.”

“Oh yes, of course, of course,” admitted the Major. “But she ought to dress with a little more style. I mean her figure really isn't bad at all—quite the contrary, in fact.”

“Archibald,” said the Major's wife, “you don't mean to say you've been eyeing the girl?”

“Not intentionally of course,” the Major reassured her. “But after all she is running around under my nose all day long. Besides, I'm thinking of her future too, and if I'm to be quite frank, I think Captain Ratshelm would be preferable to Lieutenant Krafft.”

“Don’t you worry your head about that,” said Felicitas Frey. “This is a woman's business. If Krafft turns out to be a man of the world with really decent manners, why shouldn't we bring him into our own little inner circle?”

“I’m afraid, though, that this fellow Krafft isn't really a man of particularly fine feelings. He's more Captain Feders's type.”

“That wouldn't do,” said the Major's wife. “And if that's so, then obviously you can't have the two together in the same section, the one as tactics instructor and the other as section officer. Anyway Captain Feders hasn't got anything to give himself airs about with his wife leading that sort of life. It's disgraceful, really disgraceful. You can't have that sort of thing in an officers' training school. But we'll have to discuss that later. We mustn't try and take on too much at once. First of all I'll take a good look at this man Krafft.”

“Welcome, welcome to my humble hearth!” cried Major Frey. “So glad you could come. Come in, gentlemen. Take your coats off. Make yourselves at home.”

The Major was wearing a simple field tunic, which both conveyed an impression of sterling worth and at the same time demonstrated the extent to which he felt at ease. His Knight's Cross with oak leaves flashed brilliantly even in the lighting of the hall, and his face was beaming with good-will.

Feders and Krafft took off their things and Krafft was introduced to the Major's niece. He shook a hot, damp hand and, smiling pleasantly, looked into a face paralyzed with embarrassment. Feders made a jovial remark or two and the girl ran off giggling.

“Captain Ratshelm was just ahead of you, gentlemen, so that now the party is complete. Do come in. My wife is most anxious to get to know you, my dear Krafft.”

“The feeling is mutual,” declared Feders, noticing with delight that at this the Major looked slightly annoyed and Lieutenant Krafft extremely embarrassed. An amusing evening seemed to lie ahead.