summons, which provided a welcome break in the exhausting marathon. Most of them were curious too: for they had soon discovered that Captain Ratshelm was utterly unpredictable. The man also had a way of talking as if reading out of some military textbook, which certainly had its funny side.
“Right. Now, just give me your attention, all of you," said Ratshelm impressively, the very picture of an officer determined to give his men a thorough grounding in their subject. “To-day we've buried our section officer, Lieutenant Barkow. He was a good man. Now we all have to die in the end, and a good soldier must be prepared to do so at any moment—officer or not, of course. So far so good. But we soldiers don't only have to fight and die; we also have a paper war to fight. And this has its points, even though I won't discuss them in further detail just at the moment. Anyhow, it's a necessary part of things that when a man dies there should sometimes be an investigation. But an investigation of this sort is a pure matter of form. Do you follow me? There's nothing more to it than that. Certain things just don't happen among officers. Understood? And just to make myself completely plain to the blockheads, Lieutenant Barkow died a natural death, a soldier's death, one might say. It was an accident, and that's all there is to it. Anyone who thinks otherwise hasn't yet understood the meaning of being an officer, and he'll find he has me to reckon with! About turn! Double march!"
INTERMEDIATE REPORT NO. 1:
The Curriculum Vitae of Lieutenant Karl Krafft, or
The problems of respectability
My name is Karl Krafft. I was born on 8th November 1916, at Pohlitz, in Stettin, Pomerania, son of a post office inspector called Joseph Krafft and his wife Margaret, whose maiden name was Panzer. I spent my childhood in the town of my birth.
The sky is dark, as it almost always is, and it rains a lot. I have grey eyes and the mirror I see them in has lost its sheen. The houses in the street are a muddy grey, the same color as my father's face. When I kiss my mother my hands wander across her forehead; and her hair is stiff and dry, grey as old silver, almost as grey as lead.
When it rains, dull grey, milky grey water runs through the streets. We run bare-foot and the water comes up to our ankles. Our hands scoop sand and earth from the garden and mud from the street and we knead it together and compress it into a dough-like mass, build dams with it. And the water rises, forms a pool, spreads and overflows the pavement, threatening to invade the cellars. People curse us, and we laugh; then we trample down the dams and run off until we can no longer see or hear the people cursing us.
Once again water is flowing. And this time it's the river at the edge of the town, called the Oder. The waters rush past sucking and churning up the earth and the sand, driving them before it, as we stare into the swirling current. We fold up huge banknotes on our knees. These banknotes have lots of zeros on them and we fold them into paper boats. They float and bob giddily about on top of the water, turn drunkenly round and round, bump into each other—but the important thing is they float. This paper money makes wonderful boats.
“All the money's any use for is to wipe your arse on!" says a man, who's my uncle. “No," says my father,” that isn't true!" “Everything printed or written, all paper in short," says my uncle,” is only fit to wipe your arse on." “You shouldn't say that!" cries my father indignantly, “at least not in front of the children."
Father doesn't talk much. Mother hardly talks at all. It's always very quiet with us in the little house. only when there's discussion of what my father calls " higher things " does he get at all excited—talk about the Fatherland for example, or the postal service. " When many men love and honor a thing," says my father, ”then you can be certain that it's worthy of love and honor—you mark my words, my son." And then my father is suddenly standing to attention in the middle of our little garden, for the head of the post office, Herr Giebelmeier, is passing by. “Very fine, Krafft," Herr Giebelmeier shouts at my father. “Really very fine—your flowers are like so many soldiers standing there. They make a brave show. Carry on, Krafft!"
“We’re going to paint this little house of ours," says my father after thinking for a long time. “We want to make a brave show of it!" And so my father buys whitewash and lime and two paint-brushes—the smaller one for me. And we begin painting it blue—bright blue, the color of the sky. And then once again the head of the post office, Herr Giebelmeier, comes past and says “What on earth are you doing there, Krafft? What's all this about?" “I’m smartening the place up a bit, sir," says my father, standing to attention. “But you can't do that," says Giebelmeier firmly,” that sort of thing's much too ostentatious; it's too garish, man. If only you'd chosen post-office yellow, I might have come round to it—but sky blue! It positively screams at you! Anyway, all I can say is: it's certainly not right for any official of mine."
“Very good, sir," says my father, and when Giebelmeier has gone my father says to me: “He was an officer of the reserve, you see." “I don't see," I say. “What’s the connection between an officer of the reserve and house painting?" “Later," says my father, “you’ll understand that too." And our house stayed grey.
In 1922 I began going to the primary school in my home town. My marks were always indifferent, but I steadily made my way up through the eight forms.
My books are tattered and well-thumbed. They are covered in smudges because my hands are sweaty and not always clean. They're full of penciled scribbles: underlinings, marks, words written in, drawings, little men sometimes, and once even a woman, as I had seen her drawn on the lavatory wall in the railway station, with thighs apart and mountainous breasts. Every time I see this picture I feel ashamed because it's such a bad drawing.
One of our teachers called Grabowski catches sight of this picture. We always call him “Stick” because he seems inseparable from the cane he carries.” Look at that—the little swine!" says Stick delightedly, waving his cane about in front of my face. “A dirty little swine, eh?" “I copied that," I tell him. “You can see it on the lavatory wall in the station." “Listen to him," says Stick. “So you've been looking at filthy drawings in the lavatory, eh?" “Well, yes," I say,” you can't really help it." “Now, my lad," says Stick, “I’m going to show you what you can help and what you can't. Bend over. Bottom in the air. Trousers tight. Right." And then he beats me with the cane, until he's panting for breath. “Right," he says,” that'll teach you, you little stinker!" And I think to myself : Yes, that'll teach me—I'll never let him catch me with a drawing like that again.
“Always be obedient," says my father. “Obedient to the Almighty and to the authorities. Then you'll have a clear conscience and your future will be assured." But the new authorities deprived him of his living because he's been obedient to the old authorities.
“You must learn to love," says my mother. “To love nature and animals and men too. Then you'll always be happy and cheerful." But when my father falls on hard times she cries a lot. Her way of loving sometimes makes me sad. From then on she is never happy or cheerful again, even when my father is given the chance of obeying the new authorities —though this makes him very proud.
The faces of the teachers all seem the same to me because their mouths all go up and down in the same sort of way. The words all sound very smooth and polished and all get written down at one time or another. Their hands, too, all seem the same; their fingers are mostly curled round a piece of chalk, a fountain-pen, a ruler or a cane. Only one of them is different. His name is Schenkenfeind. He knows a lot of poetry by heart and I learn everything he recites. And some more besides. I don't find this particularly difficult and Schenkenfeind is liberal with his praise. I even learn a poem about the Battle of Leuthen which has fifty-two verses. And Schenkenfeind says “A fine poem!" And I believe him because he seems
