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The Major lowered himself heavily into an armchair. The telephone stood just beside him. He had a problem to wrestle with now. He certainly wanted to protect himself from harm and also not to disappoint his wife. But it wasn't so easy to get the General to change his mind, for he always required absolutely conclusive arguments.
“Did you notice how he looked me up and down, Archibald?” the Major's wife now asked with a shudder of indignation.
“He looked you up and down?”
“Almost as if I were one of those terrible women. I felt utterly ashamed. A positively animal look, Archibald. I regard him as quite shameless and utterly degenerate.”
“But my dear Felicitas,” said the Major in some confusion, “he probably only wanted to flirt with you a bit. You should laugh at that and take it as a compliment—an unfortunate compliment perhaps, but at least the right idea was there. He simply tried to make eyes at his commanding officer's wife, in order, in his rather clumsy way, to get you to like him.”
The Major took one look at his wife and felt sure that he was right. Her qualities were unmistakably more of a spiritual nature. But then he began to have slight doubts. Not everyone, he told himself, was made like himself, with his sense of duty, his moral irreproachability. He had known how to sublimate his instincts in action. But even among his own officers there might easily be people who were inclined to go astray. He had even read of a singular addiction in some young people for older women, and there was nothing he would put beyond Krafft.
“He looked at me as if he wanted to undress me!” insisted his wife with a great show of indignation.
The Major shook his head sadly. “You must be mistaken, Felicitas,” he went so far as to say.
“I don't make mistakes about that sort of thing,” she insisted. “And if all that isn't enough for you, then I won't keep the rest from you: the man tried to molest me in an unbecoming manner under the table.”
“Inconceivable!” said the Major. “An unfortunate accident, perhaps.”
“It can't all be accident!” cried Frau Felicitas bitterly. Then she walked over to the door, opened it, and called: “Barbara!”
Barbara, the girl who was both niece and maid, appeared at once. A shabby apron was tied round her, for her day's duties were by no means over. She blinked and looked past the Major at Felicitas. She waited.
“Barbara,” said Felicitas imperiously, “what was the matter when you were helping the officers into their overcoats just now? You let out a shriek and then giggled like an idiot. Why?”
“Oh, nothing, nothing at all,” said Barbara, blushing.
“Aha!“ cried Frau Felicitas. “Lieutenant Krafft was standing just beside you. Did this man pinch you by any chance? And if he did, where?”
“It was nothing,” Barbara insisted. “Really nothing.” She looked down.
“That’ll do,” said Felicitas Frey. “You can go back to your work now.”
Barbara left with visible relief. The Major watched her go, thoughtfully. She did indeed have a remarkably fine figure. And Krafft had noticed the fact on the very first evening, the depraved fellow.
“Well?” asked Felicitas insistently. “Aren’t you going to do anything about it? It may be too late by to-morrow.”
Major Frey nodded gloomily. Then with an air of determination he picked up the telephone and had he put through to the barracks. When after a slight delay the switchboard at the training school answered, he gave his name and rank. Then, clearing his throat, he asked to be put through to the General.
“Modersohn,” said a clear, quiet voice almost at once.
“I’m terribly sorry to trouble you at such a late hour, General . . .”
“Don’t waste time explaining,” said the General. “Get to the point.”
“General, on mature reflection I have decided to request you most earnestly to countermand your appointment of Lieutenant Krafft to be section officer of my Number Six Company.”
“Request refused,” said the General, and hung up.
“What always fascinates me,” said Captain Ratshelm, “is the elegance and sophistication one finds in Major Frey's house.”
“And what fascinates me,” said Feders, “is the colossal narrow-mindedness that prevails there.”
They were walking up the hill towards the barracks, a picture of harmony, it might have been thought. In the center walked Captain Ratshelm, to his right Captain Feders, to his left Lieutenant Krafft—men engaged in the training of officers, striding easily along, in amiable conversation.
It was a bright, clear night and the snow crunched beneath their feet. Everything around them seemed mildly enchanted—the sharp outlines of the trees, the houses like dolls' houses, a sky full of twinkling stars. A typical German winter's night, thought Ratshelm. Then he turned to Feders again and said cordially: “You’ve got it all wrong, Feders my dear fellow. Our Major and his worthy wife are cherishing eternal values. They are upholding all those things that it is so essential to preserve—home, dignity, social intercourse.”
“Nonsensical sham, nauseating twaddle, an eye on the main chance!“ declared Feders. “These people are living in a mad world of their own, and of course they're not the only ones.”
“Excuse me, Feders,” said Captain Ratshelm indulgently but in a mild tone of rebuke, “you’re talking about your own Major, you know.”
“I’m talking about a state of mind that I call narrow-mindedness,” said Feders stubbornly. “It’s a widespread defect, like short sight. No one with it sees further than his own limited horizon.”
“My dear Feders,” said Ratshelm, trying to calm him down, “we should strive to live our lives in a spirit of loyalty, humility and unselfishness.”
“Tripe ! “ cried Feders abruptly. “What we should do is keep our eyes and ears open and see this world as it really is, with all the muck that's in it, and all the blood. What matters is to be able to see beyond the horizon. Over there behind Hill Two Hundred and One lies Berlin, and a few thousand human beings die there almost every night, torn to shreds, suffocated, burning and bleeding to death. A few hundred miles further on is the eastern front. While we're busy kissing hands and grinning inanely, thousands of men are dying there, crushed by tanks and burned by flame-throwers—and here we are entertaining ourselves with polished social conventions.”
“You’re a bitter man, Captain Feders,” said Ratshelm. “I can understand why.”
“If you're going to harp on my marriage, then I'll really go to town on you.”
“I shall take care not to do that, Feders,” Ratshelm hastened to reassure him. “I merely wanted to try and explain my point of view. But sometimes, you know, you really are a difficult person to get along with.”
“Only sometimes, unfortunately,” said Feders. “Most of the time I am paralyzed by weakness, fatigue and disgust. Above all I am quite unlike our friend Krafft here, who seems able to walk in his sleep. Or do you have a melancholy streak in you?”
“A streak of something or other,” said the Lieutenant, “but I'm afraid it doesn't run very deep. Do you remember that girl Barbara—how she laughed!”
“So she did!” said Feders, suddenly recovering his spirits. “I’d almost forgotten about it. The little thing squealed like some kitchen slut who's had her bottom pinched.”
“I don't understand,” said Ratshelm in bewilderment. “I imagine you two gentlemen are talking about Fräulein Barbara Bendler-Trebitz, Frau Frey's niece. She laughed, certainly, but what's so special about that?”
“The point is why she laughed,” declared Feders. “She laughed because our friend Krafft did in fact pinch her bottom.”
With a sense of outrage Ratshelm said: “How could you do such a thing, Lieutenant Krafft? I find that downright vulgar. And in that house, too!”
“Well,” said Krafft, “maybe you do, but the little girl enjoyed it! In that house too. Quite instructive, really. Or don't you think so?”
“` Request refused,' was all the General said. Nothing else.”
Major Frey, man of the world and hero of many battles, sat there shattered. A curt rejection of this sort from the General could have quite unforeseeable consequences. The General had always been a difficult man to approach, yet he, Frey, had never before known him quite so hard and uncompromising.
“I’m afraid,” muttered the Major, “that I've just made a mistake that's going to be almost impossible to put right. And it's all the fault of this Lieutenant Krafft!”
“I had a feeling,” said his wife, with undertones of triumph in her voice, “that this man's appearance was going to lead to little good.”
“Maybe,” said the Major uneasily, racking his brains for some way out of the situation, “but at all events it would have been better if you hadn't interfered!”
“But you know my reasons for doing so,” she said in astonishment. “And you've accepted them up to now.”
“Perhaps I shouldn't have,” said the Major suddenly. Yet he quickly saw that it was pointless. He avoided his wife's eyes, for he felt that she had let him down badly.
His glance wandered restlessly over the rose-patterned carpet. He just hadn't been sufficiently on the alert. He should have taken her idiosyncrasies into account more. She was inordinately sensitive about certain things. She could talk for hours on end about illness, wounds and death, but the simplest physical contact was sometimes enough to bring her to the verge of unreason. There was nobility about her, of course, unmistakable nobility; the Major was in no doubt of that. But on the delicate subject of sex, what she liked was tenderness, the shimmer of romance, chivalrous devotion, soft music and the willing attendance of courtiers. She was deeply sensitive. And honorable too, uncommonly honorable. But she was utterly lacking in all sense of reality. Damn it, officers weren't a bunch of minnesingers—certainly not this fellow Krafft who was responsible for the mess he was in now.
“Felicitas,” said the Major, “I think you shouldn't overdo your role as a paragon of virtue, not when grim realities are at stake. My God, do try and realize that a training school like this isn't a hot-house for sensitive plants!”
Felicitas looked at her husband as if he were some workman who had forced his way into her house. She raised her great sheep's nose majestically into the air and declared: “That is no way to speak to me, Archibald.”
“Oh, really!” said the Major, who still hadn't recovered from the shock of Modersohn's two words. “If you hadn't come out with these idiotic sexual complexes of yours, I would never have incurred the General's rebuke.”
“I pity you,” she said, “and find it lamentable that you should try to shift the blame for your own ineptness on to me.” The sheep's nose rose still higher into the air, looked ever more majestic, then described a hundred-and-eighty degree turn and was borne out of the room, a convincing picture of indignant pride. A door slammed and the Major was alone.
This Lieutenant Krafft, thought the Major bitterly, is not only endangering my marriage but has brought the General down on top of me as well. To hell with this man Krafft!
8. THE CADETS MAKE A MISTAKE
“Hand-grenades ready for the new man!” cried one of the cadets brightly. “Out with bayonets and pen nibs—it's a matter of life and death! Idiots and suicides to the fore— soldiers take cover!” The speaker looked round for applause, but no one laughed. This was no time for trying to be funny. A new section officer marked a new chapter in training, perhaps even a new start altogether. And this was nothing to joke about.
The cadets of H Section were entering classroom thirteen in ones and twos. They took their places, unpacked their brief-cases, and laid their notebooks out in front of them. All this was done surely and mechanically, as when a knob is turned in a factory, or a lever's position changed at the ring of a bell.
Up to this moment in the day everything had gone like clockwork—reveille, early games, washing, breakfast, cleaning out of rooms, marching to class. But now the complications set in. Unforeseen developments might lie ahead. No one could be sure of what would happen. A wrong answer could result in a bad mark; every false move might prejudice one's chances of a commission.
“Listen here!” cried Cadet Kramer, the section senior. “This new man's name is Krafft, Lieutenant Krafft.” He had learned the name from one of the course commander's clerks. “Anyone know him?”
No one knew him the cadets had had their work cut out getting to know their former section officer, their tactics instructor, their course commander, and all the other people who had a say in whether or not they were to become officers. No other officers interested them.
“In one hour at the latest,” said Cadet Hochbauer with an air of superiority, “we shall know exactly how to behave. Until then it's best to reserve judgment. And don't let anyone try and suck up to him too soon!”
This was to be taken as not just a hint but a warning. The cadets round Hochbauer nodded. What was more; there was some sense in the injunction, since it was never advisable to put too much faith in a superior officer whose business was to put them through their paces for several weeks on end.
On this particular morning, therefore, the cadets of H Section were unusually quiet. They slipped uneasily into their places and looked nervously across the bare room towards the instructor's desk and the blackboard.
At the middle desk in the front row sat Cadet Hochbauer, and beside him the section senior. The two conversed together under their breath. Hochbauer gave Kramer advice, and Kramer nodded agreement. Cadets Rednitz and Mösler naturally sat right at the back of the room. Of all those present they were easily the calmest, for they had invested practically nothing in this course to date, either physically or spiritually, and as a result had nothing to lose.
“What are we getting so excited about, children?” asked Rednitz jovially. “It’s quite possible that the new man will be completely accommodating. It's possible too that he'll have limitations, or be blessed with more than his share of stubbornness. In any case the man's an officer, so we must be prepared for anything.”
“We’re going to wait and see,” said Cadet Hochbauer in a tone of rebuke. “It would be a mistake to jump to conclusions, don't you think, Kramer?”
“A great mistake,” said the section senior.
“But what if the new man's like Lieutenant Barkow?” inquired Mösler.
“Then,” said Rednitz, “we’ll again have to put our trust in God, our Cadet Hochbauer, and the effectiveness of a fast-burning fuse.”
Hochbauer jumped to his feet and drew himself up to his full height. The cadets in the front row backed away and formed a ring of spectators. An uneasy silence settled over the room, broken only by the shuffling of feet.
Hochbauer walked down the center gangway to the back of the room, followed by Kramer, the section senior. Two other cadets, Amfortas and Andreas, joined the procession, though more to cover the rear than for any other purpose. The room was poorly heated, but the temperature seemed to have risen appreciably.
“Now what's all this melodrama so early in the morning!” cried Mösler, looking round for some way of escape.
Rednitz had also risen. He looked rather pale but managed to convey a certain air of light-heartedness nevertheless. He waited until Hochbauer was standing in front of him and then made an effort to broaden his friendly smile. He wasn't afraid, being too well acquainted with the freakish twists of fate at the front to have any fear of this posturing youth. And although he was about the same age as Hochbauer, he felt himself almost an old man by contrast.
“Rednitz,” said Hochbauer in an unmistakably menacing tone, “I don't like your nasty insinuations.”
“You don't need to listen to them!”
“I regard my honor as at stake over this,” said Hochbauer.
“If nothing else,” said Rednitz. Cadet Rednitz looked round at the flat, pallid faces of his companions, and found little support there. But he was grateful for Mösler's hand on his arm, and noticed that the bull-like Weber, Egon, was maneuvering into position, though less out of loyalty than at the prospect of a fight for its own sake. The net effect, however, was likely to be the same.
“You will apologies to Hochbauer,” Kramer ordered Rednitz, and Amfortas and Andreas nodded energetically. “This has gone beyond a joke.”
“I think we both agree on that,” said Rednitz. “The problem is to convince Hochbauer.”
The cadets watched the dispute with rising misgiving, sensing unnecessary complications. Things were difficult enough as it was, on the course, without having dissensions in their own ranks which were just a dangerous waste of time.
The majority of the cadets respected Kramer as their section senior. He had spent a good deal of time as a corporal and thus had the necessary experience for the job without being clever enough to rule by intrigue. He was in fact a relatively decent fellow, a real plodder, and they could hardly have found anyone better.
But the cadets also tolerated Hochbauer as deputy section senior, having quickly realized that he was one of the ambitious ones of this world. There was no way of stopping him or placating him except by letting him have his own way. That he also happened to be a powerful athlete and an expert in ideology were additional reasons for letting him have his head.
These, then, were the basic considerations in the minds of the cadets. The line of least resistance was their chief concern: and life simply had to be taken as it came. This was why the provocative attitude of Rednitz and Mösler seemed nothing short of irresponsible. The instinct for self-preservation alone demanded that such outsiders should receive no support.
“I’m waiting,” said Hochbauer, looking at Rednitz as if he were some sort of louse.
“As far as I'm concerned,” said Rednitz, “you can wait there till the cows come home.”
“I’ll give you five seconds,” said Cadet Hochbauer. “After that my patience will be exhausted.”
“Be reasonable, Rednitz I” implored Kramer. “After all we're all comrades here, all in the same boat. Apologize and it'll all be forgotten.”
“Out of my way, Kramer!” cried Hochbauer firmly. “One has to talk plain German with people like this!”
Kramer still wanted to act the peacemaker, but Hochbauer pushed his way forward, followed by his bodyguard Amfortas and Andreas. Then everyone stopped where they were and listened.
“Look out! He's coming!” cried a hoarse, excited voice.
This was Cadet Böhmke; a poetically inclined individual who in consequence found himself allotted every sort of dreary special duty. This time he had been posted as look-out.
“Look out!” he repeated.
“Attention!” cried Kramer with relief. “To your places, men!”
Captain Ratshelm walked into the classroom followed by Lieutenant Krafft. Cadet Kramer reported: “Section H for Heinrich—forty men all present and correct, sir.”
“Thank you,” said Ratshelm. “At ease please!” “Stand at ease!” cried Kramer.
The cadets pushed their left feet forward and sideways and waited. Each knew perfectly well that the order Captain Ratshelm had just issued was an imperfect one. But he could afford to do that sort of thing: he wasn't on the course.
He corrected himself: “You may sit down.”
“Be seated!” cried Kramer.
The cadets sat down very correctly, with their hands on the desk in front of them in the prescribed manner for the presence of officers. They now began to cast a wary eye on Lieutenant Krafft, without, however, for one moment forgetting to give the impression that their whole attention was riveted on Captain Ratshelm, the senior officer present.
Captain Ratshelm now addressed them with gusto. “Gentlemen, I have the honor to introduce to you your new section officer, Lieutenant Krafft. I know you'll give him your full respect and confidence.”
Ratshelm looked about him with a challenging air of optimism, concluding with the words: “Lieutenant Krafft, I hereby hand over to you your section and wish you every success.”
The cadets watched the ceremony with mixed feelings, noting the exchange of handshakes between the two officers, the radiant look on Ratshelm's face and the tough smile on Krafft's. Then Ratshelm strutted from the room, leaving H Section alone with its new section officer.
The cadets couldn't make much of him at first. Outwardly he bore a certain resemblance to a bull. His face wore a serious expression, and his glance seemed to sweep over them indifferently. He seemed to have no particular quality that one could pick on, which rather increased their uneasiness. They had no idea yet who it was they had to deal with. And yet everything seemed possible, including of course the worst.
Lieutenant Krafft saw forty faces staring up at him, forty vague, colorless, identical faces in which he found it quite impossible to make out the details. Somewhere in the back row he thought he discovered a pair of friendly eyes for a moment, but couldn't find them again when he looked for them. Instead he saw passive indifference, watchful reserve, and cautious mistrust.
“Right, gentlemen,” said the Lieutenant. “We must get to know each other. I am your new section officer, Lieutenant Krafft, born in 1916, at Stettin, to be precise, where my father was an official of the post office. I worked on a large agricultural estate as farm foreman and as accountant in the estate office, and was then called up in the Wehrmacht. And that's about all. Now it's your turn. Let's begin with the section senior.”
This increased the cadets' misgivings considerably. They began to feel they were being victimized, for they had expected their section officer to start straight in on the lesson, in which case the Lieutenant would have had to hold the floor and they would have been able to take their time sizing him up. Instead of which, here was this Lieutenant Krafft demanding from them solo performances which could only have one object, namely to bring each one of them in turn under scrutiny. And what, after that, would they know of their new section officer? Nothing. That he wouldn't have gathered anything very much about them either didn't seem to occur to them.
Meanwhile the section senior had risen to his feet and in his hoarse, slightly rasping voice, obviously accustomed to giving orders, announced curtly: “Kramer, Otto, cadet. Born 1920 in Nuremberg. Father, fitter in a photographic works. Regular enlistment. Corporal.”
“Any further interests, Kramer? Particular aptitudes? Hobbies?”
“None,” declared Kramer honestly, and sat down, feeling rather pleased with himself. He was a simple soldier and nothing more, and it seemed to him important to have made that clear. He was sure he'd made a good job of things. He always was, until someone of higher rank pointed out the contrary. But this happened rarely enough.