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Authors: Erich Maria Remarque
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Deutschland, Deutschland über alles?
”
Werner screwed up his eyes. “Maybe they no longer trust—their own Nazi songs—after what happened today.”
The prisoners stared straight ahead and sang. Werner sensed a strange tension rising in him, and he suddenly had the impressionthat he was not the only one to sense it—as if Muenzer also sensed it, as if Goldstein on the ground sensed it, as if many others sensed it, including even the SS. The song sounded suddenly different from the way the prisoners usually sang. It grew louder and almost defiantly ironical and the words had no longer anything to do with it. I hope Weber doesn’t notice it, thought Werner, while he glanced at the camp leader—or we’ll have even more dead than are lying there already.
Goldstein’s face on the ground was close to that of Scheller. Scheller’s lips were moving. Goldstein couldn’t understand what he said; but he saw the half-open eyes and guessed what it was. “Nonsense!” he said. “We can count on the lazaret kapo. He’ll wangle it. You’ll pull through.”
Scheller answered something. “Shut your trap!” Goldstein shouted back through the noise. “You’ll pull through—that’s that.” In front of him he saw the gray porous skin. “They won’t syringe you off!” he howled as text into the last bar of the anthem. “We can count on the lazaret kapo. He’ll grease the doctor.”
“Attention!”
The song broke off. The camp Commandant had arrived on the ground. Weber reported. “I’ve given these boys a short sermon and struck an extra hour’s work on them.”
Neubauer was uninterested. He sniffed the air and glanced up at the night sky. “Do you think the gangsters’ll be coming back tonight?”
Weber grinned. “According to the last radio reports, we shot down ninety per cent.”
Neubauer didn’t find that funny. One more with nothing to lose, he thought. A little Dietz, a hireling, that’s all. “Let the men break ranks when you’re through,” he suddenly declared, grumpy.
“Fall out!”
The blocks marched off to the barracks. They took with themtheir wounded and dead. Scheller’s face was pointed like that of a dwarf when Werner, Muenzer and Goldstein picked him up. He looked as if he would not survive the night. During the geography practice Goldstein had received a kick in the nose. As he marched off it began to bleed. In the pale light the blood shone dark on his chin.
They turned into the road leading to their barracks. The wind, blowing up from the town, had increased and hit them square as they turned the corner. It brought up with it the smoke of the burning town.
The faces of the prisoners changed. “Do you smell it, too?” asked Werner after a while.
“Yes.” Muenzer raised his head.
Goldstein felt the sweet taste of the blood on his lips. He spat and tried to taste the smoke with open mouth. “It smells as if it were burning here too.”
“Yes.”
Now they could even see it. It blew up from the valley through the streets like a light white mist and soon it hung everywhere between the barracks. For a moment it struck Werner as strange and almost incomprehensible that the barbed wire did not keep it back—as though the camp were suddenly no longer so cut off and inaccessible as it had been before.
They walked down the road. They walked through the smoke. Their steps grew firmer and their shoulders straighter. They carried Scheller with great care. Goldstein bent low over him. “Smell it! Do smell it, too!” he said quietly, desperate and imploring, into the pointed face.
But Scheller had fainted long ago.
Chapter Five
T HE BARRACK WAS DARK and stank. It was a long time since there had been any light in the evenings. “509,” whispered Berger. “Lohmann wants to speak to you.”
“Has it got that far?”
“Not yet.”
509 groped along the narrow passages to the wooden partitions near which was outlined the dim square of the window.
Deutschland, Deutschland über alles?
”
Werner screwed up his eyes. “Maybe they no longer trust—their own Nazi songs—after what happened today.”
The prisoners stared straight ahead and sang. Werner sensed a strange tension rising in him, and he suddenly had the impressionthat he was not the only one to sense it—as if Muenzer also sensed it, as if Goldstein on the ground sensed it, as if many others sensed it, including even the SS. The song sounded suddenly different from the way the prisoners usually sang. It grew louder and almost defiantly ironical and the words had no longer anything to do with it. I hope Weber doesn’t notice it, thought Werner, while he glanced at the camp leader—or we’ll have even more dead than are lying there already.
Goldstein’s face on the ground was close to that of Scheller. Scheller’s lips were moving. Goldstein couldn’t understand what he said; but he saw the half-open eyes and guessed what it was. “Nonsense!” he said. “We can count on the lazaret kapo. He’ll wangle it. You’ll pull through.”
Scheller answered something. “Shut your trap!” Goldstein shouted back through the noise. “You’ll pull through—that’s that.” In front of him he saw the gray porous skin. “They won’t syringe you off!” he howled as text into the last bar of the anthem. “We can count on the lazaret kapo. He’ll grease the doctor.”
“Attention!”
The song broke off. The camp Commandant had arrived on the ground. Weber reported. “I’ve given these boys a short sermon and struck an extra hour’s work on them.”
Neubauer was uninterested. He sniffed the air and glanced up at the night sky. “Do you think the gangsters’ll be coming back tonight?”
Weber grinned. “According to the last radio reports, we shot down ninety per cent.”
Neubauer didn’t find that funny. One more with nothing to lose, he thought. A little Dietz, a hireling, that’s all. “Let the men break ranks when you’re through,” he suddenly declared, grumpy.
“Fall out!”
The blocks marched off to the barracks. They took with themtheir wounded and dead. Scheller’s face was pointed like that of a dwarf when Werner, Muenzer and Goldstein picked him up. He looked as if he would not survive the night. During the geography practice Goldstein had received a kick in the nose. As he marched off it began to bleed. In the pale light the blood shone dark on his chin.
They turned into the road leading to their barracks. The wind, blowing up from the town, had increased and hit them square as they turned the corner. It brought up with it the smoke of the burning town.
The faces of the prisoners changed. “Do you smell it, too?” asked Werner after a while.
“Yes.” Muenzer raised his head.
Goldstein felt the sweet taste of the blood on his lips. He spat and tried to taste the smoke with open mouth. “It smells as if it were burning here too.”
“Yes.”
Now they could even see it. It blew up from the valley through the streets like a light white mist and soon it hung everywhere between the barracks. For a moment it struck Werner as strange and almost incomprehensible that the barbed wire did not keep it back—as though the camp were suddenly no longer so cut off and inaccessible as it had been before.
They walked down the road. They walked through the smoke. Their steps grew firmer and their shoulders straighter. They carried Scheller with great care. Goldstein bent low over him. “Smell it! Do smell it, too!” he said quietly, desperate and imploring, into the pointed face.
But Scheller had fainted long ago.
Chapter Five
T HE BARRACK WAS DARK and stank. It was a long time since there had been any light in the evenings. “509,” whispered Berger. “Lohmann wants to speak to you.”
“Has it got that far?”
“Not yet.”
509 groped along the narrow passages to the wooden partitions near which was outlined the dim square of the window.
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