The Train Was on Time Read online

  The man in the red cap was waiting obediently for the resounding voice that had to say its piece, then the train got under way, lighter by a few heroes, richer by a few heroes. It was daylight but still early: seven o’clock. Never again, never ever again will I pass through Dortmund. How strange, a city like Dortmund; I’ve passed through it often and have never been in the town itself. Never ever will I know what Dortmund is like, and never ever again will I see this girl with the coffeepot. Never again; soon I’m going to die, between Lvov and Cernauti. My life is now nothing but a specific number of miles, a section of railway line. But that’s odd, there’s no front between Lvov and Cernauti, and not many partisans either, or has there been some glorious great cave-in along the front overnight? Is the war suddenly, quite suddenly, over? Will peace come before this Soon? Some kind of disaster? Maybe the divine beast is dead, assassinated at last, or the Russians have launched an attack on all fronts and swept everything before them as far as between Lvov and Cernauti, and capitulation.…

  There was no escape, the sleeping men had woken up, they were beginning to eat, drink, chat.…

  He leaned against the open window and let the chill morning wind beat against his face. I’ll get drunk, he thought, I’ll knock back a whole bottle, then I won’t know a thing, then I’ll be safe at least as far as Breslau. He bent down, hurriedly opened his pack, but an invisible hand restrained him from grasping the bottle. He took out a sandwich and quietly and slowly began to chew. How terrible, to have to eat just before one’s death. Soon I’m going to die, yet I still have to eat. Slices of bread and sausage, air-raid sandwiches packed for him by his friend the chaplain, a whole package of sandwiches with plenty of sausage in them, and the terrible thing was that they tasted so good.

  He leaned against the open window, quietly eating and chewing, from time to time reaching down into his open pack for another sandwich. Between mouthfuls he sipped the lukewarm coffee.

  It was terrible to look into the drab houses where the slaves were getting ready to march off to their factories. House after house, house after house, and everywhere lived people who suffered, who laughed, people who ate and drank and begat new human beings, people who tomorrow might be dead; the place was teeming with human life. Old women and children, men, and soldiers too. Soldiers were standing at windows, one here, one there, and each man knew when he would be on the train again, traveling back to hell.…

  “Hey there, mate,” said a husky voice behind him, “want to join us in a little game?” He swung round: “Yes!” he said without thinking, at the same time catching sight of a deck of cards in a soldier’s hand: the soldier, who was grinning at him, needed a shave. I said Yes, he thought, so he nodded and followed the soldier. The corridor was deserted except for two men who had taken themselves off with their luggage to the vestibule, where one of them, a tall fellow with blond hair and slack features, was sitting on the floor, grinning.

  “Find anybody?”

  “Yes,” said the unshaven soldier in his husky voice.

  Soon I’m going to die, thought Andreas, squatting down on his pack, which he had brought along. Each time he put down the pack his steel helmet rattled, and now the sight of the steel helmet reminded him that he had forgotten his rifle. My rifle, he thought, it’s standing propped up in Paul’s closet behind his raincoat. He smiled. “That’s right, mate,” said the blond fellow. “Forget your troubles and join the game.”

  The two men had made themselves very snug. They were sitting by a door, but the door was barricaded, the handle tightly secured with wire, and luggage had been stacked up in front of it. The unshaven soldier took a pair of pliers out of his pocket—he was wearing regular blue work pants—he took out the pliers, fished out a roll of wire from somewhere under the luggage, and began to wind fresh wire still more tightly around the door handle.

  “That’s right, mate,” said the blond fellow. “They can kiss our arses till we get to Przemysl. You’re going that far, aren’t you? I see you are,” he said when Andreas nodded.

  Andreas soon realized they were drunk; the unshaven soldier had a whole battery of bottles in his carton, and he passed the bottles around. First they played blackjack. The train rattled, daylight grew stronger, and they stopped at stations with resounding voices and stations without resounding voices. It filled up and emptied, filled up and emptied, and all the time the three men stayed in their corner playing cards.

  Sometimes, at a station, someone outside would rattle furiously at the locked door and swear, but they would only laugh and go on with their game and throw the empty bottles out of the window. Andreas didn’t think about the game at all, these games of chance were so wonderfully simple there was no need to think, your mind could be somewhere else.…

  Paul would be up by now, if he had slept at all. Maybe there had been another air-raid alarm, and he hadn’t had any sleep. If he had slept, then it could only have been for a few hours. He must have got home at four. Now it was almost ten. So he had slept till eight, then got up, washed, read mass, prayed for me. He prayed for me to be happy because I had denied human happiness.

  “Pass!” he said. Marvelous—you just said “Pass!” and had time to think.…

  Then he would have gone home and smoked cigarette butts in his pipe, had a bite to eat, some air-raid sandwiches, and gone off again. Some place or other. Maybe to a girl having an illegitimate baby by a soldier, maybe to a mother, or maybe to the black market to buy a few cigarettes.

  “Flush,” he said.

  He had won again. The money in his pocket made quite a packet now.

  “You’re a lucky bastard,” said the soldier who needed a shave. “Drink up, my friends!” He passed the bottle around again, he was sweating, and beneath the mask of coarse joviality his face was very sad and preoccupied. He shuffled the cards … a good thing I don’t have to shuffle them. I need one more minute to think about Paul, to concentrate on Paul, tired and pale; now he’s walking through the ruins and praying, all the time. I gave him hell, you should never give anyone hell, not even a sergeant.…

  “Three of a kind,” he said, “and a pair.” He had won again.

  The other men laughed, they didn’t care about the money, all they wanted was to kill time. What a laborious, frightful business it was, this killing time, over and over again that little seconds-hand racing invisibly beyond the horizon, over and over again you threw a heavy dark sack over it, in the certain knowledge that the little hand went racing on, relentlessly on and on.…

  “Nordhausen!” proclaimed a resounding voice. “Nordhausen!” The voice announced the name of the station just as he was shuffling the cards. “Troop-train now departing for Przemysl via …” and then it said: “All aboard and close the doors!” How normal it all was. He slowly dealt the cards. It was already close on eleven. They were still drinking schnapps, the schnapps was good. He made a few complimentary remarks about the schnapps to the soldier who needed a shave. The train had filled up again. They had very little room now, and quite a few of the men were looking at them. It had become uncomfortable, and it was impossible to avoid overhearing the men’s chatter.

  “Pass,” he said. The blond fellow and the unshaven soldier were sparring good-naturedly for the kitty. They knew they were both bluffing, but they both laughed, the point was to see who could bluff best.

  “Practically speaking,” said a North German voice behind him, “practically speaking we’ve already won the war!”

  “Hm,” came another voice.

  “As if the Führer could lose a war!” said a third voice. “It’s crazy to say such a thing anyway: winning a war! Anyone who talks about winning a war must already be considering the possibility of losing one. Once we start a war, that war is won.”

  “The Crimea’s already cut off,” said a fourth voice. “The Russians have closed it off at Perekop.”

  “That’s where I’m being sent,” said a faint voice, “to the Crimea.…”

  “Only by plane, though,�
�� came the confident voice of the war-winner. “It’s great by plane.…”

  “The Tommies won’t risk it.”

  The silence of those who said nothing was terrible. It was the silence of those who don’t forget, of those who know they are done for.

  The blond fellow had shuffled, and the unshaven soldier opened with fifty marks.

  Andreas saw he was holding a royal flush.

  “And fifty,” he said, laughing.

  “I’m in,” said the unshaven soldier.

  “Raise twenty.”

  “I’m in.”

  Needless to say, the unshaven soldier lost.

  “Two hundred and forty marks,” said a voice behind them, accompanied, as the sound of the voice indicated, by a shake of the head. It had been quiet for a minute while they had been battling for the kitty. Then the chatter started up again.

  “Have a drink,” said the unshaven soldier.

  “This door business is crazy, I tell you!”

  “What door?”

  “They’ve barricaded the door, those bastards, those scabs!”

  “Shut up!”

  A station without a resounding voice. God bless stations without resounding voices. The buzzing chatter of the other men went on, they had forgotten about the door and the two hundred and forty marks, and Andreas gradually began to realize he was a bit drunk.

  “Shouldn’t we have a break?” he said. “I’d like a bite to eat.”

  “No!” shouted the unshaven soldier, “not on your life, we’ll carry on till we get to Przemysl! No”—his voice was filled with a terrible fear. The blond fellow yawned and began muttering. “No,” shouted the unshaven soldier.…

  They went on playing.

  “The 42 MG is all we need to win the war. The others have nothing like it.…”

  “The Führer knows what he’s doing!” But the silence of those who said nothing, nothing at all, was terrible. It was the silence of those who knew they were all done for.

  At times the train got so full they could hardly hold their cards. All three were drunk by now, but very clear in the head. Then the train would empty again, there were loud voices, resounding and unresounding. Railway stations. The day wore on to afternoon. From time to time they would pause for a snack, then go on playing, go on drinking. The schnapps was excellent.

  “Well, it’s French, after all,” said the soldier who needed a shave. He seemed to need one more than ever now. His face was pallid under the black stubble. His eyes were red, he hardly ever won, but he appeared to have a vast supply of money. Now the blond fellow was winning often. They were playing chemin-de-fer, the train being empty again, then they played rummy, and suddenly the cards fell from the unshaven soldier’s hand, he slumped forward and began to snore horribly. The blond fellow straightened him, gently arranging him so that he could sleep propped up. They put something over his feet, and Andreas returned his winnings to the man’s pocket.

  How gently and tenderly the blond fellow treats his friend! I’d never have expected it of that slob.

  I wonder what Paul’s doing now?

  They got to their feet and stretched, shook crumbs and dirt from their laps, and cigarette ash, and flung the last empty bottle out of the window.

  They were traveling through an empty countryside, left and right glorious gardens, gentle hills, smiling clouds—an autumn afternoon.… Soon, soon I’m going to die. Between Lvov and Cernauti. During the card game he had tried to pray, but he kept having to think about it; he had tried again to form sentences in the future and realized they had no force. He had tried again to grasp it in terms of time—it was make-believe, idle make-believe! But he had only to think of the word Przemysl to know he was on the right track. Lvov! His heart missed a beat. Cernauti! Nothing … it must be somewhere in between … he couldn’t visualize it, he had no mental picture of the map. “D’you have a map?” he asked the blond fellow, who was looking out of the window.

  “No,” he said amiably, “but he does!” He pointed to the soldier who needed a shave. “He has a map. How restless he is. He’s got something on his mind. That’s a fellow with something terrible on his mind, I tell you.…”

  Andreas said nothing and looked over the man’s shoulder through the window. “Radebeul!” said a resounding Saxon voice. A decent voice, a good voice, a German voice, a voice that might just as well be saying: The next ten thousand into the slaughterhouse, please.…

  It was wonderful outside, still almost like summer, September weather. Soon I’m going to die, I’ll never see that tree again, that russet tree over there by the green house. I’ll never see that girl wheeling her bike again, the girl in the yellow dress with the black hair. These things the train’s racing past, I’ll never see any of them again.…

  The blond fellow was asleep now too, he had sat down on the floor beside his pal, and in sleep they had sunk against one another; the snores of one were harsh and loud, of the other soft and whistling. The corridor was deserted except for now and again someone going to the john, and occasionally someone would say: “There’s room inside, you know, mate.” But it was much nicer in the corridor, in the corridor you were more alone, and now that both the others were asleep he was quite alone, and it had been a terrific idea to secure the door with wire.

  Everything the train’s leaving behind I’m leaving behind too, once and for all, he thought. I’ll never see any more of this again, never again this segment of sky full of soft gray-blue clouds, never again this little fly, a very young one, perched on the window frame and flying off now, off to somewhere in Radebeul; that little fly will stay in Radebeul, I guess … stay behind under this segment of sky, that little fly will never keep me company between Lvov and Cernauti. The fly is on its way to Radebeul, maybe it’s flying into some kitchen heavy with the odor of potatoes boiled in their jackets and the acrid smell of cheap vinegar, where they’re making potato salad for some soldier who’s now free to suffer for three weeks through the alleged joys of home leave … that’s all I’ll ever see, he thought, for at that moment the train swung in a great loop and was coming into Dresden.

  At Dresden the platform was very full, and at Dresden many men got out. The window faced a whole cluster of soldiers headed by a stout, red-faced young lieutenant. The soldiers were all dressed up in brand-new uniforms, the lieutenant was also in his brand-new hand-me-downs for the doomed; even the decorations on his chest were as new as freshly cast lead soldiers, they looked like complete fakes. The lieutenant grasped the door handle and rattled it.

  “Open up there!” he shouted at Andreas.

  “The door’s closed, it won’t open,” Andreas shouted back.

  “Don’t shout at me, open up, open up at once!”

  Andreas shut his mouth and glowered at the lieutenant. I’m soon going to die, he thought, and he’s shouting at me. His gaze went beyond the lieutenant; the soldiers standing with the lieutenant grinned behind his back. At least the faces of these men were not new, they had old, gray, knowing faces, only their uniforms were new, and even their decorations seemed old and worn. Only the lieutenant was new from top to toe, he even had a brand-new face. His cheeks became redder still, and his blue eyes went a bit red too. Now he lowered his voice, and it was so soft, with such a soft threat in it, that Andreas had to laugh. “Are you going to open the door?” he asked. Rage was exploding from his shiny buttons. “Look at me at least!” he roared at Andreas. But Andreas did not look at him. I’m going to die soon, he thought; all these people standing around on the platform, I’ll never see any of them again, not one. And he wouldn’t smell that smell again either, that smell of dust and railway smoke, here at his window saturated with the smell of the lieutenant’s brand-new uniform that smelled of synthetic wool.

  “I’ll have you arrested,” roared the lieutenant. “I’ll report you to the military police!”

  Luckily the blond fellow had woken up. He came to the window, sleepy-eyed, stood impeccably at attention, and said to the lieutenan
t:

  “Regret to report, sir, that the door was sealed off on the station side on account of its being defective: to prevent accidents.” He delivered this in the regulation manner, briskly and submissively, it was marvelous the way he spoke, like a clock striking twelve. The lieutenant let out one more furious sigh. “Why didn’t you say so?” he yelled at Andreas.

  “Regret to report further, sir, that my companion is deaf, stone deaf,” the blond fellow rattled off. “Head wound.” The soldiers behind the lieutenant laughed, and the lieutenant turned beet-red, swung round, and went off to look for space somewhere else. The bevy of men followed him. “Stupid bastard,” muttered the blond fellow after him.

  I could get out here, thought Andreas as he watched the lively bustle on the platform. I could get out here, go off someplace, any place, on and on, till they caught me and put me up against a wall, and I wouldn’t die between Lvov and Cernauti, I would be shot in some little village in Saxony or die like a dog in a concentration camp. But I’m standing here by the window and I feel as if I were made of lead. I can’t move, I feel paralyzed, this train is part of me and I’m part of the train, this train that has to carry me to my appointed end, and the strange part about it is that I have absolutely no desire to get out here and stroll along the banks of the Elbe under those nice trees. I long for Poland, I long for that horizon as intensely, as fiercely and ardently, as only a lover can long for his beloved. If only the train would move, if only it would get going! Why is it standing here, why is it standing so long in this godforsaken Saxony, why has the resounding voice been silent for so long? I’m bursting with impatience, I’m not scared, that’s the strange thing, I’m not scared, just indescribably curious and restless. Anl yet I don’t want to die. I want to live, theoretically life is beautiful, theoretically life is glorious, and I don’t want to get out, it’s funny to think I could get out. I need only walk along the corridor, leave my useless pack behind and clear out, anywhere, stroll under trees with their fall coloring, and I go on standing here as if I were made of lead; I want to stay on this train, I have a terrible longing for the gray drabness of Poland and for that unknown stretch between Lvov and Cernauti where I have to die.