Ringo
Gold Member
The Opel got stuck about a kilometer from the village. A puddle, as big as a garrison brig, surrounded the car from all sides. In front - a swamp, depth. On the sides - the abysses that do not know the difference between water and solid. Behind - a dissolved road, and on it the Opel slowly-slowly paddled to the dry land, trying to frighten the mud element with a ducking roar.
- Hans, it wouldn't hold.
Hans bit his lip, squinted his eyes. Hans gripped the steering wheel with a dead grip. Hans didn't answer.
- It won't hold, comrade!
- Shut up.
And the slavic mud let go of the good, well-made german car.
- What now, Willy? Where's your village moonshine?
The only passenger was thinking. Yes, moonshine is the only thing they know how to make properly here. And he had one and only chance to persuade Hans to give him a ride into this wilderness. But they didn't get there just little bit, what an embarrassment!
On the other hand, Hans wouldn't see the whole thing, so he wouldn't tell anyone. That's even better. In fact, Willy was prepared to endure the ridicule. Hillbilly. A big-headed peasant! What he'd come here for was worth a modicum of patience.
- Half an hour there, half an hour back. An hour there. An hour and a half at worst. Be patient.
The driver nodded.
Willie got out of the car. Instantly chilled, he lifted his collar. He wrinkled his nose: his well-worn yufteck boots were muddy up to the shin. Droplets of brown slime hung on his black uniform pants. He wandered slowly, choosing smaller places. Behind his shoulders, in an empty satchel, a sapper shovel clattered.
- Hey!” Hans shouted back at him, ”Hey!
- What?
- It's cold. Willi Vasiliev, you won't get off with one liter.
- Don't whine, you'll get it.
* * *
The village opened up behind the hill. It's been three years since he was last here. When he graduated from the Istrinsky real school for peoples of the 4th class and joined the Landmacht. He came for a visit, and in three days he had quarreled with everyone.... People, words, movements, objects pissed him off. But most of all, odors. Everywhere he went, there was a stench. Unused to it.
An old drunken villager in felt boots and a cotton jacket, skinny as a pole, would open the door in front of him. He would shake his head and kiss him. An old, ugly woman in a chintz shawl with faded stains will offer him mushroom soup. A younger girl, plain-haired and promiscuous, will try to lure him into her bed. A half-dead dog, a hundred years old, will sniff him and put its dirty paws on his pants. All predictable and ugly. Pfui!
He listened to himself: would a single string in his soul shudder, would it respond to the smoky scent of the autumn village familiar from his childhood? No, nothing. The last time he had yelled like a madman here, it had been for one reason: the girl had seemed close to him. She had seemed like family then. And the dog. I don't know why.
No. It's been three years. Now he's a stranger in this dreary land.
And he has a very good fieldfelon's uniform, new and fine, compared to anything you'd see here. And on his left pocket is a black badge for a wound received in the first campaign, when they repulsed the chinese from Chita.
They couldn't understand Willie even then, and now there was a gulf between him and the local men.
But something in these places, perhaps, is worth his patience....
There was no need to knock: the door was open. The dark hayloft smelled of dried herbs. An upper room. Striped doormats. Grandfather's clock tick-tocking. A shabby chintz curtain fences off the kitchen corner. On the bench sits an old skinny villager in a cotton jacket and felt boots. The skin is flabby under his chin. Half-gray, half-earthy hair is thinly combed.
Well, that's right. He ran in with kisses. Damn it, he's stinking up the uniform.... Willie turns his face away, afraid to breathe in the full breath of the moonshine stench.... but no, the old man is sober today.
- Son! Vanya. He's here! And we didn't expect it. Last time... we're sorry.
- It's good to see you, Papa.
- Malanya! Mother! Vanya's here!
- I can see that, old man.
Mutter hastily wipes his palms with an old rag and kisses him too.
- Sonny... my son. I feel sorry for you.
He shuddered at the disgusting word “sorry” Filth!. Wretch!t
- Why didn't you write a letter, son? We didn't get ready. It's all empty, we can't even set a table.
- I'm just passing through, Dad.
- Let's call the neighbors! You'll tell me about it.
- I have one hour.
Muther dropped her hands.
- How can you do that? It's not good. Only an hour!
- Service, mom.
Now the worst possible thing happened. Mutter's red, ugly face shook, tears rolled down her face. Shit! Willie didn't know how he could shake off the feeling of disgust. Fortunately, a vater came to the rescue.
- Don't rattle, Malanya! Quiet! Be glad you've got at least an hour. Isn't there any soup left?
- Oh! Why am I... Like a crazy person..
I'll have some mushroom soup. And a pickle. And I'll boil some tea, but I don't have saccharine
- That's all right, Mom. It's no trouble.
Vater winked at him conspiratorially.
- Sweetheart! You do that... you know, that.
- What?
- Well. don't you get it?
- I know without a some smart ones!
A bottle of moonshine was instantly on the table.
I didn't want to ask them for even the smallest thing, but I had to. Otherwise Hans will eat me up.
- Daddy. а... Don't you think I need also some to take with me?
Vater smiled: at least his son still needed him in some way, how happy he was! Fools. If he didn't have to pay Hans, he wouldn't have come in for a minute. He'd have gone straight to that place.
- She'll find it, my son. Mother, give him some dried mushrooms! More. There's a lot of mushrooms.
- I don't want any, Dad.
- Give it to him, give it to him, old woman!
- I can think for myself.
- All right, then.
He scooped hot soup with a clay spoon. He took a bite of bread. What crappy bread! What do they mix it with? With bark?
- Mikhalych, look what a handsome boy we have here. What a man he's grown! Twenty years old, but look at his shoulders!
- Yes... Vanya, have you ever been to war? With the chinamen?
- I was, dad.
- How was it?
There's at least a little bit of humanity in the vater. A warrior. He knows nothing, understands nothing, but he knows how to ask the right question. Willie tipped his shot and answered calmly:
- War is war, Dad. We're stronger, we'll win. We'll break their will. But here's the thing, daddy. I've had to change my name. From now on, you must call me Wilhelm.
The old man was taken aback. And you could see that he wanted to argue, to give his son a good thrashing. But his face, stiffened for a moment, soon softened. The son had arrived. Vanka or Wilhelm, he might never have to see him again.
Don't. No. Let's not fight. Willie hated vater for being weak. But it doesn't matter anymore.
- Vanyusha, did they hurt you there? They didn't hurt you, did they? You'd stay out of the thick of it, why do we need it?
It's rubbish! You can't change it by any force. A slavic female, a fool, an idiot.
- Nonsense, Mom.
He would have shown her “Vanyusha”! And he would have explained, who it is that “we" who don't need a mercilessly cruel fight against the yellow menace. But, what's the point!
Vater, having eaten, mumbled the words of a prayer and crossed himself. Perhaps he should explain to them what trouble awaited people who prayed to gods alien to the Reich out of animal habits. But then again, why? Why pity them? They have been using for a thousand years a hole over a crappool and will continue to do so for another thousand years. Bad blood!
It's inborn lowliness. That is why the Germans have Dürer, Goethe, Frederick the Great, Bismarck and Wagner, the English have Shakespeare, the French have Baudelaire, but in slavic history there is nothing but a wasteland, nothing but a flat place overgrown with lush grass. Not a single great politician, not a single great general, not a single strong literary man. A hole! A hole in humanity. The whole nation, from top to bottom, are slaves. Only gypsies and jews are more talentless. You can't argue with blood.
The door rattled.
- Here's Katusha! Good of you to come. Sit down, I'll pour you some tea.
- Malanya Petrovna, the boys told me that Vasilyev's son had arrived.
She didn't look at Willie. Looked at the table.
At the window curtains. At the stove. Not at him. Willie realized, that when mutter cried and he thought the worst possible thing had happened, it was a big mistake. The worst came a minute ago.
- Mikhalych, come on, give me a hand in the hay.
- What's up?
- Come on, I said, lift the heavy stuff from the cellar.
- Ah. Well, of course...
Both of them, barely restraining smiles, came out of the storeroom.
That's the trouble. Oh, how he wanted to avoid explanations.... It was not to be.
- "I'm writing to you, what else can I do?"
Eight unanswered letters.
Katya clapped her eyelashes once, then again and dared to look at him. Willie looked away. There was nothing to talk about. It was unnecessary talk.
- I've been waiting for you, Vanya.
Three years ago he was still corresponding with Katya. To think of it! Some sentiments towards an ignorant village beauty, who smelled of sweat and dung for the rest of her life, until the grave. True, she was very good. What a braid she had! And what skin! It was a miracle how a poor, dirty, stupid village could still produce such beauties. Besides, Katya was clever. If slavic women were allowed to go to school, she would easily make a doctor or a teacher. Or... it doesn't matter. Katya is the best thing here. Except for the moonshine, of course.
Willie remembered - not felt, no, he couldn't feel it through the table - but remembered the smell of her hair.
- There can be nothing in common between us. Remember this once and for all.
- Vanya...
- My name is Wilhelm now.
Well. Tears. Accusations of all sins. Insults. Howling. Slapping. Come on. Give it in the full!
Katya put down her tea and rose silently. She took a few steps and only at the door, turning around, said:
- I don't know Wilhelm.
She jumped out. Vater and mutter came into the parlor with equally white faces.
- My son... Katya. she... like scalded...
Willi was disgusted. An added nightmare, pfui! Vater took mutter's hand, trying to calm her down. But mutter wouldn't calm down.
- Son... how did you... between you...
- Malanya, that's enough. We'll talk later.
Vater put two bottles of moonshine in front of him and put a bunch of mushrooms on the table.
- There's nothing more to give, son. We live poorly.
Implying? Definitely. He's waiting in vain
- That's it! I gotta go, Dad.
They don't understand. They think, “We raised money as a family to send him to real school. “Now he'll help us. Now he's gonna get us out.” And they don't understand a thing. And just one look was enough for him - then, four years ago, in 2007.
The “Union of Young Helpers” infected everyone with a glorious idea: students would work free of charge on the construction of a memorial to the great Otto Kumm. After all, it was he, in December 41, just an SS Obersturmbannführer and commander of the SS “Führer” motorized infantry regiment, who made the famous breakthrough from the Istra Reservoir to the center of Moscow. It was he who was the first to enter the Kremlin on a motorcycle! A letter was sent to the old man.
Kumm was touched and specially came from Offenburg - to talk to the young barbarians from the people of the 4th grade. Almost the most luminous personality of the Reich, the iron dragon of the division “Leibstandarte” and... come to them! As an ordinary mortal! The school greeted him with flowers. Four hundred boys gathered in the auditorium for a ceremonial talk.
Mr. Kumm was a decrepit old man. He staggered, leaned on his stick as he walked, and his head was shaking. Otto Kumm accidentally touched the duty officer's palm, and took out a handkerchief to wipe his hand, but he dropped the stick and almost fell. No one dared to touch him, and he barely managed to regain his balance.
But when the Reichsmarshal came on stage and approached the microphone, all his decrepitude vanished. His head stopped shaking. Old eyes, discolored by time, looked menacingly, confidently. This old man had once driven tank armadas into battle and had acquired from armored vehicles the indestructible strength of construction.
"You know your ceiling. You're bad blood, so you can't rise above the level of first class servants. But your children will be allowed to copulate with some of the full blood peoples....." - he said.
"In addition, they will be allowed free passage to Warsaw, Prague, Helsingfors and even Budapest. Don't forget: Your sons will be able to fully appreciate what true civility is, and your grandchildren will get a chance to turn into human beings. No ancestor of yours ever had that opportunity. Never dreamed of it. And your grandchildren have an open road to Europe. It's up to you. Your will. Your strength. I will give you one piece of advice, remember it well: Your main enemy is your own weakness, born of bad blood flowing through your arteries and veins, you must crush in your soul any sprouts of weakness, any sprouts of spiritual rot. Turning oneself into a human being, one should destroy everything too human!"
That was in March 2007.
And a few days later the news came to the school: Otto Kumm had died at home. So, he wanted to give his final duty as a liberator to the liberated, and spent the last of his life to do it. That's a real man. A man worth being.
Those few words and that special look in Otto Kumm's eyes changed Willie's whole life. He learned what no one else could ever teach him.
...He shouldn't have slammed the door. In this kind of situation, a full-fledged man should be ice-cold calm. You don't want to mess with the mind of a serf.
An ancient dog, dragging his paws, slowly makes his way up the porch steps. Neither his sight nor his hearing have worked since three years ago, life barely thrives in his puny body. What's left is his sense of smell. What's the dog's name? Barbos, maybe? Willie couldn't remember. Now he's gonna sniff, lick his hand, paw at his feet. Predictable and ugly.
The dog moved his nostrils, looked sadly at Willy and ... transformed. With a nervous shriek, he jumped up and clamped his teeth into his hand. Willie had not yet had time to realize what had happened, and the dog, showing not at all senile agility, hid under the porch. That hurt. The lousy beast shouldn't have had any teeth left!
Jumping down to the ground, Willie tried to get the dog with his boot, but the cunning dog hid under the hut and from there grumbled defiantly, realizing, perhaps, with his clever dog mind: the human wouldn't get him, and it would be too dangerous to come out for a fair fight. Had to retreat. Wretched creature! There was blood in two places.
Alles! I'll never come here again. Never again! Now he's ready to do the job he came for.
...The almost overgrown path knits loops between gray grass and gray grass. The huts go farther and farther away. There it is, the old well, long since abandoned, overgrown with monstrously sized mulberries. The black log cabin has lost one log that fell outward and another that collapsed inward. All rotted away.
Willie removes his satchel from his shoulders, pulls out his sapper spade and throws away the silly bundles of dried mushrooms. He doesn't want to be involved in the foolishness of rural life, not even with a little hook of his soul caught in the bread or the skirt.
The damp clay soil flies off in large clods. Devil! Dirty sleeve...
Metal clangs against metal. There's the lid. It's not deep at all, Katya must have climbed in here recently. Once, a million years ago, they made a hiding place: they dug a large nickel-plated tank under the crane and put a precious package in it. Which... is still there!
The shabby material was unraveling under my fingers. Won't be needing that shit anymore, though. How many were there? Two? Three?
Four books. Excellent. The first two will make him an Abschnitzfuhrer. The third one he can exchange for a bronze badge “For Distinguished Service to the Nations of 4th Class”. And the last one... the last one... if it's taken seriously, could bring a transfer to a 1 Level servant.
Willie glanced at the covers. The ridiculous slavic script hurt his eyes. He had once read the language well. Now... he couldn't remember anything. Is it “B” or “C”? What's it like... what's it like... “ch” or ‘sh’? Chaotic, barbaric, superfluous language. Pushkin... poetry. probably some stalinist singing the delights of collective farm slavery. Dostoyu... Dostoek.... an unpronounceable slavic surname. Lermontov. Oh! A good, european name. Cultured. Did they translate any of the civilized poets? Did they know how to translate or not? It doesn't matter. Bloch. Jew! Weed him out. That's the only way!
Book fires are rarely lit nowadays. There are almost no books in unnecessary languages left - they've been thrown away for seventy years. Then the higher the price of what the tireless trackers will find. He imagined the badge “For Distinction...” on his dress uniform. Not the Iron Cross or a battle medal, but it was a place to start....
Willie stood up. He didn't need anything here now. Katya would probably cry. Today he robbed her of her empty dreams of a family life with a man of higher status. And then he took away the only thing that distinguished Katya from the whole herd of rural laborers. Her beauty would fade in five or seven years from bad food and plenty of hard work. And her false culturedness would disappear, unable to find nourishment in slavic books. He left her with nothing. Squeezed her dry.
Her crying face came into view. I don't want to hurt her. It's... unpleasant. It's... it's not good. Why did it happen?
Willie slapped himself. Unpleasant? Damn weak blood! Like rust it corrodes every metal, penetrates everywhere! Never again, under any circumstances, should I ever think of that woman. Her name must be forgotten.
- Human - he said softly - all too human. To be destroyed!
(c)Dmitry Volodikhin
- Hans, it wouldn't hold.
Hans bit his lip, squinted his eyes. Hans gripped the steering wheel with a dead grip. Hans didn't answer.
- It won't hold, comrade!
- Shut up.
And the slavic mud let go of the good, well-made german car.
- What now, Willy? Where's your village moonshine?
The only passenger was thinking. Yes, moonshine is the only thing they know how to make properly here. And he had one and only chance to persuade Hans to give him a ride into this wilderness. But they didn't get there just little bit, what an embarrassment!
On the other hand, Hans wouldn't see the whole thing, so he wouldn't tell anyone. That's even better. In fact, Willy was prepared to endure the ridicule. Hillbilly. A big-headed peasant! What he'd come here for was worth a modicum of patience.
- Half an hour there, half an hour back. An hour there. An hour and a half at worst. Be patient.
The driver nodded.
Willie got out of the car. Instantly chilled, he lifted his collar. He wrinkled his nose: his well-worn yufteck boots were muddy up to the shin. Droplets of brown slime hung on his black uniform pants. He wandered slowly, choosing smaller places. Behind his shoulders, in an empty satchel, a sapper shovel clattered.
- Hey!” Hans shouted back at him, ”Hey!
- What?
- It's cold. Willi Vasiliev, you won't get off with one liter.
- Don't whine, you'll get it.
* * *
The village opened up behind the hill. It's been three years since he was last here. When he graduated from the Istrinsky real school for peoples of the 4th class and joined the Landmacht. He came for a visit, and in three days he had quarreled with everyone.... People, words, movements, objects pissed him off. But most of all, odors. Everywhere he went, there was a stench. Unused to it.
An old drunken villager in felt boots and a cotton jacket, skinny as a pole, would open the door in front of him. He would shake his head and kiss him. An old, ugly woman in a chintz shawl with faded stains will offer him mushroom soup. A younger girl, plain-haired and promiscuous, will try to lure him into her bed. A half-dead dog, a hundred years old, will sniff him and put its dirty paws on his pants. All predictable and ugly. Pfui!
He listened to himself: would a single string in his soul shudder, would it respond to the smoky scent of the autumn village familiar from his childhood? No, nothing. The last time he had yelled like a madman here, it had been for one reason: the girl had seemed close to him. She had seemed like family then. And the dog. I don't know why.
No. It's been three years. Now he's a stranger in this dreary land.
And he has a very good fieldfelon's uniform, new and fine, compared to anything you'd see here. And on his left pocket is a black badge for a wound received in the first campaign, when they repulsed the chinese from Chita.
They couldn't understand Willie even then, and now there was a gulf between him and the local men.
But something in these places, perhaps, is worth his patience....
There was no need to knock: the door was open. The dark hayloft smelled of dried herbs. An upper room. Striped doormats. Grandfather's clock tick-tocking. A shabby chintz curtain fences off the kitchen corner. On the bench sits an old skinny villager in a cotton jacket and felt boots. The skin is flabby under his chin. Half-gray, half-earthy hair is thinly combed.
Well, that's right. He ran in with kisses. Damn it, he's stinking up the uniform.... Willie turns his face away, afraid to breathe in the full breath of the moonshine stench.... but no, the old man is sober today.
- Son! Vanya. He's here! And we didn't expect it. Last time... we're sorry.
- It's good to see you, Papa.
- Malanya! Mother! Vanya's here!
- I can see that, old man.
Mutter hastily wipes his palms with an old rag and kisses him too.
- Sonny... my son. I feel sorry for you.
He shuddered at the disgusting word “sorry” Filth!. Wretch!t
- Why didn't you write a letter, son? We didn't get ready. It's all empty, we can't even set a table.
- I'm just passing through, Dad.
- Let's call the neighbors! You'll tell me about it.
- I have one hour.
Muther dropped her hands.
- How can you do that? It's not good. Only an hour!
- Service, mom.
Now the worst possible thing happened. Mutter's red, ugly face shook, tears rolled down her face. Shit! Willie didn't know how he could shake off the feeling of disgust. Fortunately, a vater came to the rescue.
- Don't rattle, Malanya! Quiet! Be glad you've got at least an hour. Isn't there any soup left?
- Oh! Why am I... Like a crazy person..
I'll have some mushroom soup. And a pickle. And I'll boil some tea, but I don't have saccharine
- That's all right, Mom. It's no trouble.
Vater winked at him conspiratorially.
- Sweetheart! You do that... you know, that.
- What?
- Well. don't you get it?
- I know without a some smart ones!
A bottle of moonshine was instantly on the table.
I didn't want to ask them for even the smallest thing, but I had to. Otherwise Hans will eat me up.
- Daddy. а... Don't you think I need also some to take with me?
Vater smiled: at least his son still needed him in some way, how happy he was! Fools. If he didn't have to pay Hans, he wouldn't have come in for a minute. He'd have gone straight to that place.
- She'll find it, my son. Mother, give him some dried mushrooms! More. There's a lot of mushrooms.
- I don't want any, Dad.
- Give it to him, give it to him, old woman!
- I can think for myself.
- All right, then.
He scooped hot soup with a clay spoon. He took a bite of bread. What crappy bread! What do they mix it with? With bark?
- Mikhalych, look what a handsome boy we have here. What a man he's grown! Twenty years old, but look at his shoulders!
- Yes... Vanya, have you ever been to war? With the chinamen?
- I was, dad.
- How was it?
There's at least a little bit of humanity in the vater. A warrior. He knows nothing, understands nothing, but he knows how to ask the right question. Willie tipped his shot and answered calmly:
- War is war, Dad. We're stronger, we'll win. We'll break their will. But here's the thing, daddy. I've had to change my name. From now on, you must call me Wilhelm.
The old man was taken aback. And you could see that he wanted to argue, to give his son a good thrashing. But his face, stiffened for a moment, soon softened. The son had arrived. Vanka or Wilhelm, he might never have to see him again.
Don't. No. Let's not fight. Willie hated vater for being weak. But it doesn't matter anymore.
- Vanyusha, did they hurt you there? They didn't hurt you, did they? You'd stay out of the thick of it, why do we need it?
It's rubbish! You can't change it by any force. A slavic female, a fool, an idiot.
- Nonsense, Mom.
He would have shown her “Vanyusha”! And he would have explained, who it is that “we" who don't need a mercilessly cruel fight against the yellow menace. But, what's the point!
Vater, having eaten, mumbled the words of a prayer and crossed himself. Perhaps he should explain to them what trouble awaited people who prayed to gods alien to the Reich out of animal habits. But then again, why? Why pity them? They have been using for a thousand years a hole over a crappool and will continue to do so for another thousand years. Bad blood!
It's inborn lowliness. That is why the Germans have Dürer, Goethe, Frederick the Great, Bismarck and Wagner, the English have Shakespeare, the French have Baudelaire, but in slavic history there is nothing but a wasteland, nothing but a flat place overgrown with lush grass. Not a single great politician, not a single great general, not a single strong literary man. A hole! A hole in humanity. The whole nation, from top to bottom, are slaves. Only gypsies and jews are more talentless. You can't argue with blood.
The door rattled.
- Here's Katusha! Good of you to come. Sit down, I'll pour you some tea.
- Malanya Petrovna, the boys told me that Vasilyev's son had arrived.
She didn't look at Willie. Looked at the table.
At the window curtains. At the stove. Not at him. Willie realized, that when mutter cried and he thought the worst possible thing had happened, it was a big mistake. The worst came a minute ago.
- Mikhalych, come on, give me a hand in the hay.
- What's up?
- Come on, I said, lift the heavy stuff from the cellar.
- Ah. Well, of course...
Both of them, barely restraining smiles, came out of the storeroom.
That's the trouble. Oh, how he wanted to avoid explanations.... It was not to be.
- "I'm writing to you, what else can I do?"
Eight unanswered letters.
Katya clapped her eyelashes once, then again and dared to look at him. Willie looked away. There was nothing to talk about. It was unnecessary talk.
- I've been waiting for you, Vanya.
Three years ago he was still corresponding with Katya. To think of it! Some sentiments towards an ignorant village beauty, who smelled of sweat and dung for the rest of her life, until the grave. True, she was very good. What a braid she had! And what skin! It was a miracle how a poor, dirty, stupid village could still produce such beauties. Besides, Katya was clever. If slavic women were allowed to go to school, she would easily make a doctor or a teacher. Or... it doesn't matter. Katya is the best thing here. Except for the moonshine, of course.
Willie remembered - not felt, no, he couldn't feel it through the table - but remembered the smell of her hair.
- There can be nothing in common between us. Remember this once and for all.
- Vanya...
- My name is Wilhelm now.
Well. Tears. Accusations of all sins. Insults. Howling. Slapping. Come on. Give it in the full!
Katya put down her tea and rose silently. She took a few steps and only at the door, turning around, said:
- I don't know Wilhelm.
She jumped out. Vater and mutter came into the parlor with equally white faces.
- My son... Katya. she... like scalded...
Willi was disgusted. An added nightmare, pfui! Vater took mutter's hand, trying to calm her down. But mutter wouldn't calm down.
- Son... how did you... between you...
- Malanya, that's enough. We'll talk later.
Vater put two bottles of moonshine in front of him and put a bunch of mushrooms on the table.
- There's nothing more to give, son. We live poorly.
Implying? Definitely. He's waiting in vain
- That's it! I gotta go, Dad.
They don't understand. They think, “We raised money as a family to send him to real school. “Now he'll help us. Now he's gonna get us out.” And they don't understand a thing. And just one look was enough for him - then, four years ago, in 2007.
The “Union of Young Helpers” infected everyone with a glorious idea: students would work free of charge on the construction of a memorial to the great Otto Kumm. After all, it was he, in December 41, just an SS Obersturmbannführer and commander of the SS “Führer” motorized infantry regiment, who made the famous breakthrough from the Istra Reservoir to the center of Moscow. It was he who was the first to enter the Kremlin on a motorcycle! A letter was sent to the old man.
Kumm was touched and specially came from Offenburg - to talk to the young barbarians from the people of the 4th grade. Almost the most luminous personality of the Reich, the iron dragon of the division “Leibstandarte” and... come to them! As an ordinary mortal! The school greeted him with flowers. Four hundred boys gathered in the auditorium for a ceremonial talk.
Mr. Kumm was a decrepit old man. He staggered, leaned on his stick as he walked, and his head was shaking. Otto Kumm accidentally touched the duty officer's palm, and took out a handkerchief to wipe his hand, but he dropped the stick and almost fell. No one dared to touch him, and he barely managed to regain his balance.
But when the Reichsmarshal came on stage and approached the microphone, all his decrepitude vanished. His head stopped shaking. Old eyes, discolored by time, looked menacingly, confidently. This old man had once driven tank armadas into battle and had acquired from armored vehicles the indestructible strength of construction.
"You know your ceiling. You're bad blood, so you can't rise above the level of first class servants. But your children will be allowed to copulate with some of the full blood peoples....." - he said.
"In addition, they will be allowed free passage to Warsaw, Prague, Helsingfors and even Budapest. Don't forget: Your sons will be able to fully appreciate what true civility is, and your grandchildren will get a chance to turn into human beings. No ancestor of yours ever had that opportunity. Never dreamed of it. And your grandchildren have an open road to Europe. It's up to you. Your will. Your strength. I will give you one piece of advice, remember it well: Your main enemy is your own weakness, born of bad blood flowing through your arteries and veins, you must crush in your soul any sprouts of weakness, any sprouts of spiritual rot. Turning oneself into a human being, one should destroy everything too human!"
That was in March 2007.
And a few days later the news came to the school: Otto Kumm had died at home. So, he wanted to give his final duty as a liberator to the liberated, and spent the last of his life to do it. That's a real man. A man worth being.
Those few words and that special look in Otto Kumm's eyes changed Willie's whole life. He learned what no one else could ever teach him.
...He shouldn't have slammed the door. In this kind of situation, a full-fledged man should be ice-cold calm. You don't want to mess with the mind of a serf.
An ancient dog, dragging his paws, slowly makes his way up the porch steps. Neither his sight nor his hearing have worked since three years ago, life barely thrives in his puny body. What's left is his sense of smell. What's the dog's name? Barbos, maybe? Willie couldn't remember. Now he's gonna sniff, lick his hand, paw at his feet. Predictable and ugly.
The dog moved his nostrils, looked sadly at Willy and ... transformed. With a nervous shriek, he jumped up and clamped his teeth into his hand. Willie had not yet had time to realize what had happened, and the dog, showing not at all senile agility, hid under the porch. That hurt. The lousy beast shouldn't have had any teeth left!
Jumping down to the ground, Willie tried to get the dog with his boot, but the cunning dog hid under the hut and from there grumbled defiantly, realizing, perhaps, with his clever dog mind: the human wouldn't get him, and it would be too dangerous to come out for a fair fight. Had to retreat. Wretched creature! There was blood in two places.
Alles! I'll never come here again. Never again! Now he's ready to do the job he came for.
...The almost overgrown path knits loops between gray grass and gray grass. The huts go farther and farther away. There it is, the old well, long since abandoned, overgrown with monstrously sized mulberries. The black log cabin has lost one log that fell outward and another that collapsed inward. All rotted away.
Willie removes his satchel from his shoulders, pulls out his sapper spade and throws away the silly bundles of dried mushrooms. He doesn't want to be involved in the foolishness of rural life, not even with a little hook of his soul caught in the bread or the skirt.
The damp clay soil flies off in large clods. Devil! Dirty sleeve...
Metal clangs against metal. There's the lid. It's not deep at all, Katya must have climbed in here recently. Once, a million years ago, they made a hiding place: they dug a large nickel-plated tank under the crane and put a precious package in it. Which... is still there!
The shabby material was unraveling under my fingers. Won't be needing that shit anymore, though. How many were there? Two? Three?
Four books. Excellent. The first two will make him an Abschnitzfuhrer. The third one he can exchange for a bronze badge “For Distinguished Service to the Nations of 4th Class”. And the last one... the last one... if it's taken seriously, could bring a transfer to a 1 Level servant.
Willie glanced at the covers. The ridiculous slavic script hurt his eyes. He had once read the language well. Now... he couldn't remember anything. Is it “B” or “C”? What's it like... what's it like... “ch” or ‘sh’? Chaotic, barbaric, superfluous language. Pushkin... poetry. probably some stalinist singing the delights of collective farm slavery. Dostoyu... Dostoek.... an unpronounceable slavic surname. Lermontov. Oh! A good, european name. Cultured. Did they translate any of the civilized poets? Did they know how to translate or not? It doesn't matter. Bloch. Jew! Weed him out. That's the only way!
Book fires are rarely lit nowadays. There are almost no books in unnecessary languages left - they've been thrown away for seventy years. Then the higher the price of what the tireless trackers will find. He imagined the badge “For Distinction...” on his dress uniform. Not the Iron Cross or a battle medal, but it was a place to start....
Willie stood up. He didn't need anything here now. Katya would probably cry. Today he robbed her of her empty dreams of a family life with a man of higher status. And then he took away the only thing that distinguished Katya from the whole herd of rural laborers. Her beauty would fade in five or seven years from bad food and plenty of hard work. And her false culturedness would disappear, unable to find nourishment in slavic books. He left her with nothing. Squeezed her dry.
Her crying face came into view. I don't want to hurt her. It's... unpleasant. It's... it's not good. Why did it happen?
Willie slapped himself. Unpleasant? Damn weak blood! Like rust it corrodes every metal, penetrates everywhere! Never again, under any circumstances, should I ever think of that woman. Her name must be forgotten.
- Human - he said softly - all too human. To be destroyed!
(c)Dmitry Volodikhin
