Chapter 8

11 min

I already know the camp on the moors. It was here that Himmelstoss gave Tjaden his education. But now I know hardly anyone here; as ever, all is altered. There are only a few people that I have occasionally met before.

I already know the camp on the moors. This is where Himmelstoss gave Tjaden his education. But now I hardly know anyone here. As always, everything has changed. There are only a few people I have met before from time to time.

I go through the routine mechanically. In the evenings I generally go to the Soldiers' Home, where the newspapers are laid out, but which I do not read; still, there is a piano there that I am glad enough to play on. Two girls are in attendance, one of them is young.

I go through the routine mechanically. In the evenings, I usually go to the Soldiers' Home. Newspapers are laid out there, but I don't read them. Still, there's a piano, and I'm glad to play it. Two girls are on duty there, one of them young.

The camp is surrounded with high barbed-wire fences. If we come back late from the Soldiers' Home we have to show passes. But those who are on good terms with the guard can get through, of course.

High barbed-wire fences surround the camp. If we come back late from the Soldiers' Home, we have to show passes. But anyone on good terms with the guard can get through, of course.

Between the junipers and the birch trees on the moor we practice company-drill each day. It is bearable if one expects nothing better. We advance at a run, fling ourselves down, and our panting breath moves the stalks of the grasses and the flowers of the heather to and fro. Looked at so closely one sees the fine sand is composed of millions of the tiniest pebbles as clear as if they had been made in a laboratory. It is strangely inviting to dig one's hands into it.

Every day we practice company drills among the junipers and birch trees on the moor. It is bearable if you expect nothing better. We run forward and throw ourselves down. Our panting breath moves the grass stalks and heather flowers back and forth. Up close, you can see that the fine sand is made up of millions of tiny pebbles. They are as clear as if they had been made in a laboratory. It is strangely inviting to dig your hands into the sand.

But most beautiful are the woods with their line of birch trees. Their colour changes with every minute. Now the stems gleam purest white, and between them airy and silken, hangs the pastel-green of the leaves; the next moment all changes to an opalescent blue, as the shivering breezes pass down from the heights and touch the green lightly away; and again in one place it deepens almost to black as a cloud passes over the sun. And this shadow moves like a ghost through the dim trunks and passes far out over the moor to the sky—then the birches stand out again like gay banners on white poles, with their red and gold patches of autumn-tinted leaves.

But most beautiful are the woods with their line of birch trees. Their color changes every minute. Now the trunks shine pure white, with airy, silky, pastel-green leaves hanging between them. The next moment, everything turns an opalescent blue. Shivering breezes sweep down from the heights and lightly brush away the green. Then, in one place, the color deepens almost to black as a cloud passes over the sun. The shadow moves like a ghost among the dim trunks and far out over the moor toward the sky. Then the birches stand out again like bright banners on white poles, with their patches of red and gold autumn leaves.

I often become so lost in the play of soft light and transparent shadow, that I almost fail to hear the commands. It is when one is alone that one begins to observe Nature and to love her. And here I have not much companionship, and do not even desire it. We are too little acquainted with one another to do more than joke a bit and play poker or nap in the evenings.

I often get so lost in the play of soft light and clear shadows that I almost miss the commands. When you are alone, you begin to notice and love nature. Here, I have little company, and I do not even want it. We do not know one another well enough to do much more than joke, play poker, or nap in the evenings.

Alongside our camp is the big Russian prison camp. It is separated from us by a wire fence, but in spite of this the prisoners come across to us. They seem nervous and fearful, though most of them are big fellows with beards—they look like meek, scolded, St. Bernard dogs.

Next to our camp is the large Russian prison camp. A wire fence separates the camps, but the prisoners still come over to us. They seem nervous and afraid, though most are big men with beards. They look like gentle St. Bernard dogs that have been scolded.

They slink about our camp and pick over the garbage tins. One can imagine what they find there. With us food is pretty scarce and none too good at that—turnips cut into six pieces and boiled in water, and unwashed carrot tops;—mouldy potatoes are tit-bits, and the chief luxury is a thin rice soup in which float little bits of beef-sinew, but these are cut up so small that they take a lot of finding.

They sneak around our camp and rummage through the garbage cans. You can imagine what they find there. Our food is scarce and not very good. We get turnips cut into six pieces and boiled in water, and unwashed carrot tops. Moldy potatoes are a treat. Our main luxury is a thin rice soup with little bits of beef sinew floating in it. But the bits are cut so small that they are hard to find.

Everything gets eaten, notwithstanding, and if ever anyone is so well off as not to want all his share, there are a dozen others standing by ready to relieve him of it. Only the dregs that the ladle cannot reach are tipped out and thrown into the garbage tins. Along with that sometimes go a few turnip peelings, mouldy bread crusts and all kinds of muck.

Still, everything gets eaten. If anyone is lucky enough not to want their whole share, a dozen others stand ready to take it. Only the scraps the ladle can't reach are tipped out and thrown into the garbage cans. Sometimes a few turnip peelings, moldy bread crusts, and all kinds of muck go in with them.

This thin, miserable, dirty garbage is the objective of the prisoners. They pick it out of the stinking tins greedily and go off with it under their blouses.

The prisoners are after this thin, miserable, dirty garbage. They greedily pick it out of the stinking tins and carry it away under their shirts.

It is strange to see these enemies of ours so close up. They have faces that make one think—honest peasant faces, broad foreheads, broad noses, broad mouths, broad hands, and thick hair.

It is strange to see our enemies so close. Their faces make you think. They have honest peasant faces, with broad foreheads, noses, and mouths, broad hands, and thick hair.

They ought to be put to threshing, reaping, and apple picking. They look just as kindly as our own peasants in Friesland.

They should be threshing grain, harvesting crops, and picking apples. They look just as kind as our own farmers in Friesland.

It is distressing to watch their movements, to see them begging for something to eat. They are all rather feeble, for they only get enough nourishment to keep them from starving. Ourselves we have not had sufficient to eat for long enough. They have dysentery; furtively many of them display the blood-stained tails of their shirts. Their backs, their necks are bent, their knees sag, their heads droop as they stretch out their hands and beg in the few words of German that they know—beg with those soft, deep, musical voices, that are like warm stoves and cosy rooms at home.

It is painful to watch them move and beg for food. They are all rather weak because they get only enough food to keep them from starving. We ourselves have not had enough to eat for a long time. They have dysentery. Many of them secretly show us the bloodstained ends of their shirts. Their backs and necks are bent, their knees sag, and their heads droop. They stretch out their hands and beg in the few German words they know. Their voices are soft, deep, and musical, like warm stoves and cozy rooms at home.

Some men there are who give them a kick, so that they fall over;—but those are not many. The majority do nothing to them, just ignore them. Occasionally, when they are too grovelling, it makes a man mad and then he kicks them. If only they would not look at one so—What great misery can be in two such small spots, no bigger than a man's thumb—in their eyes!

Some men kick them, knocking them over, but not many do. Most do nothing to them and just ignore them. Sometimes, when they grovel too much, it makes a man angry, and he kicks them. If only they would not look at you that way. How much misery can lie in their eyes, two tiny spots no bigger than a man's thumb!

They come over to the camp in the evenings and trade. They exchange whatever they possess for bread. Often they have fair success, because they have very good boots and ours are bad. The leather of their knee boots is wonderfully soft, like suede. The peasants among us who get tit bits sent from home can afford to trade. The price of a pair of boots is about two or three loaves of army bread, or a loaf of bread and a small, tough ham sausage.

They come to the camp in the evenings to trade. They exchange whatever they have for bread. They often do quite well because their boots are very good and ours are bad. The leather of their knee-high boots is wonderfully soft, like suede. The peasants among us who receive treats from home can afford to trade. A pair of boots costs about two or three loaves of army bread, or one loaf and a small, tough ham sausage.

But most of the Russians have long since parted with whatever things they had. Now they wear only the most pitiful clothing, and try to exchange little carvings and objects that they have made out of shell fragments and copper driving bands. Of course, they don't get much for such things, though they may have taken immense pains with them—they go for a slice or two of bread. Our peasants are hard and cunning when they bargain. They hold the piece of bread or sausage right under the nose of the Russian till he grows pale with greed and his eyes bulge and then he will give anything for it. The peasants wrap up their booty with the utmost solemnity, and then get out their big pocket knives, and slowly and deliberately cut off a slice of bread for themselves from their supply and with every mouthful take a piece of the good, tough sausage and so reward themselves with a good feed. It is distressing to watch them take their afternoon meal thus; one would like to crack them over their thick pates. They rarely give anything away. How little we understand one another!

But most of the Russians gave up whatever possessions they had long ago. Now they wear only the most pitiful clothes. They try to trade small carvings and other objects made from shell fragments and copper driving bands. Of course, they don't get much for these things, even though they may have taken great pains to make them. The objects go for a slice or two of bread. Our peasants are hard and cunning when they bargain. They hold a piece of bread or sausage right under a Russian's nose. He grows pale with greed, and his eyes bulge. Then he will give anything for it. The peasants wrap up their loot with the utmost seriousness. Then they take out their big pocket knives and slowly, deliberately cut themselves a slice of bread from their supplies. With every mouthful, they eat a piece of the good, tough sausage, rewarding themselves with a good meal. It is distressing to watch them eat their afternoon meal like this. You feel like cracking them over their thick heads. They rarely give anything away. How little we understand one another!

* *

I am often on guard over the Russians. In the darkness one sees their forms move like sick storks, like great birds. They come close up to the wire fence and lean their faces against it; their fingers hook round the mesh. Often many stand side by side, and breathe the wind that comes down from the moors and the forest.

I am often on guard over the Russians. In the darkness, I see their figures moving like sick storks, like great birds. They come close to the wire fence and press their faces against it. Their fingers curl around the mesh. Often, many stand side by side, breathing in the wind that comes down from the moors and the forest.

They rarely speak and then only a few words. They are more human and more brotherly towards one another, it seems to me, than we are. But perhaps that is merely because they feel themselves to be more unfortunate than us. Anyway the war is over so far as they are concerned. But to wait for dysentery is not much of a life either.

They rarely speak, and when they do, they say only a few words. They seem more humane and more like brothers to one another than we are. But perhaps that is only because they feel more unfortunate than we do. In any case, the war is over for them. But waiting for dysentery is not much of a life either.

The Territorials who are in charge of them say that they were much more lively at first. They used to have intrigues among themselves, as always happens, and it would often come to blows and knives. But now they are quite apathetic, and listless; most of them do not masturbate any more, they are so feeble, though occasionally it is so bad that they do it barracks fashion.

The Territorials in charge of them say they were much more lively at first. They used to scheme among themselves, as always happens. This often led to fights with fists and knives. But now they are apathetic and listless. Most of them are so weak that they no longer masturbate. Though occasionally it gets so bad that they do it barracks fashion.

They stand at the wire fence; sometimes one goes away and then another at once takes his place in the line. Most of them are silent; occasionally one begs a cigarette butt.

They stand at the wire fence. Sometimes one leaves, and another immediately takes his place in line. Most are silent. Occasionally, one begs for a cigarette butt.

I see their dark forms, their beards move in the wind. I know nothing of them except that they are prisoners, and that is exactly what troubles me. Their life is obscure and guiltless;—if I could know more of them, what their names are, how they live, what they are waiting for, what are their burdens, then my emotion would have an object and might become sympathy. But as it is I perceive behind them only the suffering of the creature, the awful melancholy of life and the pitilessness of men.

I see their dark figures, their beards moving in the wind. I know nothing about them except that they are prisoners. That is exactly what troubles me. Their lives are unknown to me, and they are innocent. If I knew more about them, my feelings would have something to focus on. If I knew their names, how they lived, what they were waiting for, and what burdens they carried, I might feel sympathy. But as it is, I see only the suffering of living beings behind them. I see the terrible sadness of life and the cruelty of people.

A word of command has made these silent figures our enemies; a word of command might transform them into our friends. At some table a document is signed by some persons whom none of us knows, and then for years together that very crime on which formerly the world's condemnation and severest penalty fell, becomes our highest aim. But who can draw such a distinction when he looks at these quiet men with their childlike faces and apostles' beards. Any non-commissioned officer is more of an enemy to a recruit, any schoolmaster to a pupil than they are to us. And yet we would shoot at them again and they at us if they were free.

An order has made these silent figures our enemies. Another order might turn them into our friends. At some table, people none of us knows sign a document. Then, for years, that very crime the world once condemned and punished most severely becomes our highest aim. But who can make such a distinction when looking at these quiet men with their childlike faces and apostles’ beards? Any non-commissioned officer is more of an enemy to a recruit than these men are to us. Any schoolteacher is more of an enemy to a pupil than these men are to us. And yet we would shoot at them again, and they would shoot at us if they were free.

I am frightened: I dare think this way no more. This way lies the abyss. It is not now the time; but I will not lose these thoughts, I will keep them, shut them away until the war is ended. My heart beats fast: this is the aim, the great, the sole aim, that I have thought of in the trenches; that I have looked for as the only possibility of existence after this annihilation of all human feeling; this is a task that will make life afterward worthy of these hideous years.

I am frightened. I dare not think this way anymore. This way leads to the abyss. Now is not the time, but I will not lose these thoughts. I will put them away until the war is over. My heart is racing. This is the goal, the great and only goal I have thought of in the trenches. I have seen it as the only possible way to live after the destruction of all human feeling. This is a task that will make life afterward worthy of these horrible years.

I take out my cigarettes, break each one in half and give them to the Russians. They bow to me and then they light the cigarettes. Now red points glow in every face. They comfort me; it looks as though there were little windows in dark village cottages saying that behind them are rooms full of peace.

I take out my cigarettes, break each one in half, and give them to the Russians. They bow to me and light the cigarettes. Now red points glow on every face. The lights comfort me. They look like little windows in dark village cottages, suggesting that the rooms behind them are full of peace.

* *

The days go by. On a foggy morning another of the Russians is buried; almost every day one of them dies. I am on guard during the burial. The prisoners sing a chorale, they sing in parts, and it sounds almost as if there were no voices, but an organ far away on the moor.

The days pass. On a foggy morning, another Russian is buried. Almost every day, one of them dies. I am on guard during the burial. The prisoners sing a hymn in harmony. It sounds almost as if there are no voices, only an organ playing far away on the moor.

The burial is quickly over.

The burial is over quickly.

In the evening they stand again at the wire fence and the wind comes down to them from the beech woods. The stars are cold.

In the evening, they stand by the wire fence again. The wind blows down to them from the beech woods. The stars are cold.

I now know a few of those who speak a little German. There is a musician amongst them, he says he used to be a violinist in Berlin. When he hears that I can play the piano he fetches his violin and plays. The others sit down and lean their backs against the fence. He stands up and plays, sometimes he has that absent expression which violinists get when they close their eyes; or again he sways the instrument to the rhythm and smiles across to me.

I now know a few of the men who speak a little German. One is a musician who says he used to be a violinist in Berlin. When he hears that I can play the piano, he gets his violin and plays. The others sit down and lean against the fence. The violinist stands and plays. Sometimes he closes his eyes and has that faraway look violinists get. At other times, he sways his violin to the rhythm and smiles at me.

He plays mostly folk songs and the others hum with him. They are like a country of dark hills that sing far down under the ground. The sound of the violin stands like a slender girl above it and is clear and alone. The voices cease and the violin continues alone. In the night it is so thin it sounds frozen; one must stand close up; it would be much better in a room;—out here it makes a man grow sad.

He mostly plays folk songs, and the others hum along. Their voices are like a country of dark hills singing far beneath the ground. The sound of the violin rises above them like a slender girl, clear and alone. The voices stop, and the violin plays on alone. In the night, its sound is so thin it seems frozen. You have to stand close to hear it. It would sound much better in a room. Out here, it makes a man sad.

* *

Because I have already had a long leave I get none on Sundays. So the last Sunday before I go back to the front my father and eldest sister come over to see me. All day we sit in the Soldiers' Home. Where else could we go, we don't want to stay in the camp. About midday we go for a walk on the moors.

Because I have already had a long leave, I don't get Sundays off. So my father and oldest sister come to see me on the last Sunday before I return to the front. We spend all day at the Soldiers' Home. Where else could we go? We don't want to stay in the camp. Around noon, we go for a walk on the moors.

The hours are a torture; we do not know what to talk about, so we speak of my mother's illness. It is now definitely cancer, she is already in the hospital and will be operated on shortly. The doctors hope she will recover, but we have never heard of cancer being cured.

The hours are torture. We don't know what to talk about, so we talk about my mother's illness. It is definitely cancer. She is already in the hospital and will have an operation soon. The doctors hope she will recover, but we have never heard of cancer being cured.

"Where is she then?" I ask.

"In the Luisa Hospital," says my father.

“In the Luisa Hospital,” says my father.

"In which class?"

"What class?"

"Third. We must wait till we know what the operation costs. She wanted to be in the third herself. She said that then she would have some company. And besides it is cheaper."

"Third class. We have to wait until we know how much the operation costs. She wanted to be in third class herself. She said she would have some company there. Besides, it is cheaper."

"So she is lying there with all those people. If only she could sleep properly."

My father nods. His face is broken and full of furrows. My mother has always been sickly; and though she has only gone to the hospital when she has been compelled to, it has cost a great deal of money, and my father's life has been practically given up to it.

My father nods. His face is worn and deeply lined. My mother has always been in poor health. Although she has only gone to the hospital when she had to, it has cost a great deal of money. My father has devoted practically his whole life to it.

"If only I knew how much the operation costs," says he.

“If only I knew how much the operation costs,” he says.

"Have you not asked?"

"Haven't you asked?"

"Not directly, I cannot do that—the surgeon might take it amiss and that would not do, he must operate on mother."

"Not directly, I can't do that. The surgeon might take offense, and that wouldn't do. He has to operate on mother."

Yes, I think bitterly, that's how it is with us, and with all poor people. They don't dare to ask the price, but worry themselves dreadfully beforehand about it; but the others, for whom it is not important, they settle the price first as a matter of course. And the doctor does not take it amiss from them.

Yes, I think bitterly, that's how it is for us and all poor people. They don't dare ask the price, but they worry terribly about it beforehand. But the others, who don't need to worry about the price, settle it first as a matter of course. And the doctor doesn't take offense when they do.

"And the dressings afterwards are so expensive," says my father.

"And the dressings afterward are so expensive," says my father.

"Doesn't the Invalid's Fund pay anything toward it, then?" I ask.

"Doesn't the Invalid's Fund pay anything toward it?" I ask.

"Mother has been ill too long."

"Mother has been sick for too long."

"Have you any money at all?"

"Do you have any money at all?"

He shakes his head: "No, but I can do some overtime."

He shakes his head: "No, but I can work some overtime."

I know. He will stand at his desk folding and pasting and cutting until twelve o'clock at night. At eight o'clock in the evening he will eat some of the miserable rubbish they get in exchange for their food tickets, then he will take a powder for his headache and work on.

I know. He will stand at his desk, folding, pasting, and cutting until midnight. At eight in the evening, he will eat some of the miserable rubbish they get with their food tickets. Then he will take a powder for his headache and keep working.

In order to cheer him up a bit I tell him a few stories, soldiers' jokes, and the like, about generals and sergeant-majors.

To cheer him up a little, I tell him some stories and soldiers' jokes about generals and sergeant-majors.

Afterwards I accompany them both to the railway station. They give me a pot of jam and a bag of potato-cakes that my mother has made for me.

Afterward, I go with both of them to the train station. They give me a jar of jam and a bag of potato cakes that my mother made for me.

Then they go off and I return to the camp.

Then they leave, and I return to the camp.

In the evening I spread the jam on the cakes and eat some. But I have no taste for them. So I go out to give them to the Russians. Then it occurs to me that my mother cooked them herself and that she was probably in pain as she stood before the hot stove. I put the bag back in my pack and take only two cakes to the Russians.

In the evening I spread jam on the cakes and eat some, but I don't enjoy them. So I go out to give them to the Russians. Then I remember that my mother made the cakes herself. She was probably in pain as she stood at the hot stove. I put the bag back in my pack and take only two cakes to the Russians.