The World as I Found It (55 page)

I see that everything I think could be otherwise.

Even God grants exceptions.

As Wittgenstein bent over his notebook, steam rose from the collar of his filthy gray tunic, slowly trailing over his ears and over the fuzz of his close-cropped head. From the Russian trenches one hundred and fifty yards away came trickles of smoke from charcoal braziers, where soldiers were warming their hands and brewing bitter black tea. Beyond, over a field of shell holes and barbed wire entanglements, lay a pulverized village, a shallow bluff and a thin line of shattered birches with black branches, their silver trunks gleaming like glass as the burnt sun rose behind them.

Below, in the ankle-deep slough of the trench after that night's rain, Wittgenstein's men were bailing and wringing out clothes. Somewhere a mule was bawling. Breakfast was coming. Down flooded communication trenches from field kitchens a half mile away, men would be carrying slopping tins slung on bending poles, troughs of ersatz tea and oatmeal tasting of the greasy soup they had eaten the night before.

For three days the rain had fallen. Rain burst through sandbags and the wattle of sticks revetting the trench walls, rusting rifles, bleaching feet white and soaking their crumbly gray war bread to the consistency of suet. Pumps and bucket brigades were useless against the rainwater: it rushed back unabated, carrying with it hunks of carrion and their own excrement, roaring down with such pressure that it forced up half-buried corpses, bursting from their rotting woolens.

All that night, muddy water had dribbled over Wittgenstein as he lay curled in a warren of hard clay under a corrugated iron sheet. Itching and anxious, he lay there in a sort of stupor, conscious of every noise and fluctuation in the weather as the provident rats skittered along the walls, the rats that in his dreams gnawed his notebook to a fine powder. For a week now, there had been rumors of a gathering Russian offensive. And each night, the Russian deserters that always preceded an offensive crossed over with raised hands, bawling
Kameraden, Kameraden
. Three had made it over the night before. Others, shot down by their officers or nervous Austrian sentries, were left where they lay. The wind was always bringing stenches.

No attack had come, though, just drenching salvoes of March rain. Then around two the night before, about the time Ernst, Wittgenstein's corporal, came to tell him the sentry was being changed, the rain began to blow over. Buckling on his pistol belt, Wittgenstein got up then to check their perimeter. Ahead, the cans and bottles tied to the barbed wire to warn of intruders crashed and tinkled in the gusting darkness; his raincoat ballooned and whipped. He fined a man for smoking, then continued down the flooded trench, which was kinked in a series of rights and lefts, called traverses, so attackers couldn't fire down the length of it or capture more than a section at a time. But this system, so crucial for defense, made it hard to police the men. And the men needed policing.

They were a rotten, demoralized army. Worse, they were a divided army, comprising roughly twelve different, mostly antagonistic, nationalities. Half his men didn't speak more than a few essential words of German: to talk to his Croat, he would have to tell the Czech, who would tell the Slovak, who would tell the Hungarian, who would tell the Croat — who got it wrong anyway. Except for Ernst, none of his men was reliable, and there was one named Grundhardt who was despicable. Grundhardt was about twenty-five, with dark hair and skin, long, decaying teeth and the sharp, raked features of a young wolf. He was a shameless braggart, with a flair for exaggeration and mystery. Even when they knew he was lying, his naive comrades, jug-eared recruits and illiterates — some men nearly twice his age — were mesmerized by his profane and confident air of experience. Grundhardt told them he was the bastard of a Gypsy whore and a smuggler. Shamelessly, he would masturbate in his dugout, describing his sexual exploits in such detail that those listening would develop vigorous erections. He claimed to have been a powerful pimp and told them of beautiful women in his native Prague who had drowned themselves for love of him. He told them of a sloe-eyed Amazon, a lover of dogs, with tits that could fill a coal bucket — tits, he swore, that could swallow a man's head whole. So help him, he said, raising his right arm, it was the gospel. He had perfumed letters to prove it — juicy pictures, too, showing him with a tart on each arm, dressed in a vulgar suit and hat and standing on the runningboard of a big motorcar.

Grundhardt could turn pure nothing into something. Give him a pea and three shells and he would fleece a platoon of a month's wages. Why, with thin air he could captivate, holding them rapt, sick with laughter, as he applied a lit match to the seat of his pants and expelled shrill gas — grinning as a long tongue of flame shot out, singeing several nearby noses.

There were men in that miserable army who had never seen a city or eaten an orange, fearful, superstitious men who believed Grundhardt when he told them he knew Gypsy curses that could bring impotence, excruciating death, madness and terrors they could scarcely imagine. That he was a thief went without saying, but no one had caught him, or if they had, had never reported him. No one dared; it went against the code. Besides, so long as Grundhardt didn't steal from them, it gave them deep satisfaction to see the little pimp confound authority in an army obsessed with it. What's more, many feared him. He was vindictive. A boy, now dead, who had argued with Grundhardt over a matter too trivial to remember found his cat hanging from a beam in a dugout, disemboweled. Another who crossed him found his boots filled with fresh stool. Justice was swift in the trenches. Several times, late at night, they had taken vengeance, swarming over him with gags and ropes, silently beating him almost beyond recognition as he defiantly flailed and cursed them. But one way or another, no matter what, Grundhardt always got even. There was no getting rid of him; some said murder wouldn't have been enough. Take Antal, the big Hungarian who had thrashed him for cheating at cards. Grundhardt's face was pouring blood when Antal had finished with him. You'll die for this, snarled Grundhardt. And before the Hungarian's eyes, he cut off a lock of his hair, mixed it with blood and spittle and set it afire with harsh, incantatory words. Watching him like a curious dog, the Hungarian shook his head, then punched him twice more in the face. Three hours later, though, when a shell landed too close, Antal was groveling at Grundhardt's feet, begging him to undo the hex. Ever since, Antal had been his dog, protecting him from his enemies and doing his dirty work for small bribes.

It had reached the point that the little pimp was threatening Wittgenstein's authority. He was turning the men against him. But unless Wittgenstein caught Grundhardt stealing or spying or being grossly insubordinate, there was little he could do. Talking did no good, nor did threats or punishments. Wittgenstein made him pull double watches, dig ditches and muck latrines. He ordered him on dangerous patrols. Nothing worked. It didn't even make an impression.

There had been an incident in Galicia that previous summer, during the Russian retreat, when Wittgenstein's men had been part of a column marching through a village where there had been a pogrom. The Russians had fled only hours before, and it was anybody's guess whether it was the Russians or the local peasants who were behind the massacre. Smashed furniture and crockery filled the street, and in the air was the stench of smoldering wool and feathers dumped out of mattresses in search of the gold that it was said the Jews were flying out of Galicia under the wings of storks. Feathers eddied and swirled through the air and stuck to the bloody faces of the dead, who numbered about thirty. Even on the battlefield, Wittgenstein had never seen such savagery. Some of the men had been castrated, others had crosses hacked on their breasts, their earlocks torn from their temples like vestigial horns. There were women as well, raped, then cast off like dead chickens, their skirts dumped over their heads. Not even children were spared. Five were laid out together, smothered like puppies with gasoline-soaked rags; someone had even taken the trouble to fold their hands into little steeples. The only survivor was a trembling old man whose cheeks had been flayed off when they scalped his beard. Now he was an open jaw, his exposed tongue moving like a slug over blackened toothstumps.

The column moved quickly through the street, some men silently crossing themselves. Then Wittgenstein looked back and saw Grundhardt grinning, grinning for no other reason than to taunt him.

Swallowing his deep revulsion, Wittgenstein let the look pass: the army had no statutes against brutishness. Grundhardt didn't let it pass, though; he just pushed Wittgenstein further. The next day they were in another village, another muddy street with more barefoot Jews. As Wittgenstein passed an alley, he saw a small shriveled boy with earlocks scream in pain and drop a coin that Grundhardt had just tossed him. Down the street the child ran, wailing and waving his hand. At first Wittgenstein didn't know what had happened, but then he saw Grundhardt snickering with four simpletons as he dropped the match and tweezers he had used to heat the coin to a dull glow.

You're all on report, said Wittgenstein, running over. And you, he said, giving Grundhardt a shove. You come with me.

Playing for the others, Grundhardt said, What's the matter? We was just having some fun with the little Yid. There any law against us having some fun?

Wittgenstein made him pay for his pranks, but each time it was the same, with Wittgenstein exacting punishment and Grundhardt extracting revenge. Wittgenstein found a putrid rat in his bed, a handful of pages torn from his notebook, his canteen filled with urine. Nobody ever saw a thing.

And sure enough, as Wittgenstein had been making his rounds in the rain the night before, it had happened again. Coming around the traverse, he surprised someone, who vaulted the wall and ran through the rainy darkness, his boots sucking and splashing through the deep mud. Wittgenstein could see from the man's gaiters and
kepi
that he was one of their own.
Halt!
Wittgenstein fired his pistol twice into the air, but the man kept running, leaping over the knee-high roof of a dugout, then disappearing down a snaking communication trench.

Having told the sentries to pass the word, Wittgenstein was about to run back and check Grundhardt's bunk when the quartermaster and three others armed with ax handles and steel billies ran up, telling him they'd lost wallets, a watch, food. Did you see the bastard? asked the quartermaster. I saw him jump the wall, said Wittgenstein. I didn't see his face but I think I know who it is. The quartermaster pushed forward. Just show him to us. Wait, said Wittgenstein, blocking his path. You let me handle it. I don't need you getting my men stirred up. I'll tell you what I find.

The four soldiers became angry and argumentative, and by the time Wittgenstein settled them down and got back down the trench, he found Grundhardt safely ensconced in his cutaway.

Get up, said Wittgenstein, yanking back the muddy tarp that draped the shelter. He was positive now that Grundhardt was the thief and expected to find him covered with mud. Yet when he tore back the covers, Grundhardt's boots were off and he was no muddier than anybody else.

Stand out, thief, said Wittgenstein with a shudder. He ran his hand under the filthy bedding. You've bought it this time.

But Grundhardt was too smart for his bluff. Who you calling a thief? he said.

Shut up, said Wittgenstein. Like passengers on a sleeping car, several men had pulled back the tarps covering their scrapes and were watching him now.

Look, said Grundhardt, with an insinuating smile. Sarge is getting into bed with me.

Wittgenstein grabbed him by the collar, but Grundhardt just smiled a sick smile, begging him to punch him. He's been asleep! spoke up Moder, another of Grundhardt's toadies, a rag-and-bone man by trade. How would you know, Moder? Wittgenstein snapped, pushing Grundhardt back into his bunk. Where have you been, Moder? Out with Grundhardt? I been sleeping, came the surly reply. Haven't heard nobody. It's true, chimed in Rauff. Stow it, said Wittgenstein, his voice backing down a notch.

He saw he was getting nowhere. This was just what Grundhardt wanted, and Wittgenstein knew he would only further erode his authority by palavering with them. Then Ernst came down. Ernst was about twenty, a tough barkeep's son with a broad back and a crazy crow of a laugh. He loathed Grundhardt and had begged Wittgenstein several times to let him take him around back for a little talk.

Hello there, you ugly little rat, said Ernst to Grundhardt. He looked expectantly at Wittgenstein. What's he done now?

Forget it, said Wittgenstein, throwing down the tarp. All of you, back to sleep.

Wittgenstein started down the trench with their nasty laughter in his ears. Ernst ran after him.

So what happened? asked Ernst. Did you catch him at it?

No
. Wittgenstein whirled around, then kept walking.

Oh, come on, said Ernst. Just say you did.

Wittgenstein stopped again. I didn't see him plainly, and I'm not about to lie about it. And you won't, either, Ernst.

But that's just what he's counting on, said Ernst in frustration. He knows you'll play fair.

Wittgenstein drew away. I don't care.

Here, Wittgenstein, said Ernst, putting his hand on his shoulder. Don't be sore. Let's just stand here and talk. I can't sleep anyhow.

I don't want to talk now, said Wittgenstein, softening. I'm not angry with you, I just want to be left a while. Go on. I'm fine. Get some sleep.

Wittgenstein felt ill when he returned to tell the quartermaster that he hadn't found his thief. He saw he was losing, Grundhardt was becoming an obsession with him. His venom was eating right through him, corroding his morals and even his very soul. His legs, which had been giving him trouble, ached from cold and dampness, and he felt a hot gurgling in his stomach as he crept through the forward sap to the Hole, as they called it. Fifty paces from the main trench, just inside the wire, the latrine was a dangerous place at night. Pulling out his Luger and flipping off the safety, Wittgenstein dropped his heavy woolen trousers and sat on the wet and reeking boards, rocking painfully while hot soup dribbed down. The wind kept gusting as the dregs of rain passed over, the last cold drops shaking down from the red clouds where the moon broke through, illuminating the draining field. A fine place to have one's throat cut, he thought. He wouldn't have been the first to have ended thus, hobbled and straining. And unavoidably, the image came to mind: a strong hand grasping his mouth, then the guttered blade gliding up under his tongue and between his teeth as his mouth welled over with blood. With a consummating shiver, he closed his eyes, his insides clenching as the junk crashed in the buffeting darkness.