The Kindly Ones

On the bank, in the darkness, Feldgendarmen were waiting. Their big curved neck plates shone in the moonlight. They led us into a bunker to face a police Hauptmann, who asked for our papers; none of us had any. “In that case,” the officer said, “I have to send you under escort to Stettin. I’m sorry, but all kinds of people are trying to infiltrate.” As we waited, they handed out cigarettes and Thomas talked amiably with him: “You have a lot of crossings?”—“Ten or fifteen a night. In our entire sector, dozens. The other day, more than two hundred men arrived all at once, still armed. Most of them end up here because of the swamps, where the Russians don’t patrol much, as you saw.”—“The idea of the telephone is ingenious.”—“Thank you. The water has risen, and a lot of men drowned when they tried to swim across. The telephone spares us bad surprises…at least, so we hope,” he added, smiling. “It seems the Russians have traitors with them.” Around dawn, they had us get into a truck with three other Rückkämpfer and an armed escort of Feldgendarmen. We had crossed the river just above Pölitz; but the city was under Russian artillery fire and our truck made a long detour before we reached Stettin. There too shells were falling, buildings were cheerfully burning; in the streets, from the truck sides, I saw almost no one but soldiers. They took us to a Wehrmacht HQ, where we were immediately separated from the soldiers, then a severe Major interrogated us, soon joined by a representative of the Gestapo in civilian clothes. I let Thomas talk, he told our story in detail; I spoke only when questioned directly. On Thomas’s suggestion, the man from the Gestapo finally agreed to call Berlin. Huppenkothen, Thomas’s superior, wasn’t there, but we were able to reach one of his deputies, who immediately identified us. Right away the attitude of the Major and the Gestapo man changed; they began calling us by our rank and offering us schnapps. The Gestapo functionary left, promising to find us transportation to Berlin; in the meantime, the Major gave us some cigarettes and had us sit on a bench in the hallway. We smoked without talking: since the beginning of the march, we’d hardly smoked at all, and it was intoxicating. A calendar on the Major’s desk bore the date March 21, our adventure had lasted for seventeen days, and it must have been obvious from our appearance: we stank, our faces were bearded, our torn uniforms were coated in mud. But we weren’t the first to arrive in this state, and it didn’t seem to shock anyone. Thomas sat upright, one leg crossed over the other, he seemed very happy with our escapade; I was slumped, my legs spread straight in front of me in a rather unmilitary fashion; a bustling Oberst, passing by with a briefcase under his arm, threw me a look of disdain. I recognized him immediately, leapt up, and greeted him warmly: it was Osnabrugge, the demolisher of bridges. He took a few moments to recognize me, then his eyes opened wide: “Obersturmbannführer! What a state you’re in.” I briefly decribed our adventure to him. “And you? Are you dynamiting German bridges now?” His face fell: “Yes, unfortunately. I blew up the Stettin bridge two days ago, when we evacuated Altdamm and Finkenwalde. It was horrible, the bridge was covered with hanged men, runaways caught by the Feldgendarmen. Three of them were still hanging after the explosion, right at the entrance to the bridge, all green. But,” he went on, pulling himself together, “we didn’t destroy everything. The Oder in front of Stettin has five branches, and we decided to demolish only the last bridge. That leaves some chance for rebuilding.”—“That’s good,” I remarked, “you’re thinking about the future, you’re keeping up your morale.” We separated at these words: a few bridgeheads, farther south, hadn’t yet fallen back, Osnabrugge had to go inspect the preparations for demolitions. Soon afterward, the man from the local Gestapo returned and had us get into a car with an SS officer who also had to go to Berlin and didn’t seem the least bit bothered by our smell. On the autobahn, the spectacle was even more horrible than in February: a continuous flow of haggard refugees and exhausted, ragged soldiers, trucks loaded with wounded, the debris of the debacle. I fell asleep almost immediately, they had to wake me up during a Sturmovik attack; as soon as I could get back in the car I fell asleep again.