did not even follow a straight line-although that was probably a good thing, as there were no traverses to contain the blast of an artillery hit. There was a foul smell: obviously the men did not always bother to walk to the latrine. What was wrong with these Russians? Everything they did was slapdash, disorganized, and half-finished.
While the bottle was going around, a sergeant appeared. “What’s going on, Feodor Igorovich?” he said, addressing the tall corporal. “Why are you talking to a cowfucking German?”
Feodor was young, but his mustache was luxuriant and curled across his cheeks. For some reason he had a nautical cap, which he wore at a jaunty angle. His air of self-confidence bordered on arrogance. “Have a drink, Sergeant Gavrik.”
The sergeant drank from the bottle like the rest, but he was not as nonchalant as his men. He gave Walter a mistrustful look. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
Walter had rehearsed what he would say. “On behalf of German workers, soldiers, and peasants, I come to ask why you are fighting us.”
After a moment of surprised silence, Feodor said: “Why are you fighting us?”
Walter had his answer ready. “We have no choice. Our country is still ruled by the kaiser-we have not yet made our revolution. But you have. The tsar is gone, and Russia is now ruled by its people. So I have come to ask the people: Why are you fighting us?”
Feodor looked at Gavrik and said: “It’s the question we keep asking ourselves!”
Gavrik shrugged. Walter guessed he was a traditionalist who was carefully keeping his opinions to himself.
Several more men came along the trench and joined the group. Walter opened another bottle. He looked around the circle of thin, ragged, dirty men who were rapidly getting drunk. “What do Russians want?”
Several men answered.
“Land.”
“Peace.”
“Freedom.”
“More booze!”
Walter took another bottle from the box. What they really needed, he thought, was soap, good food, and new boots.
Feodor said: “I want to go home to my village. They’re dividing up the prince’s land, and I need to make sure my family gets its fair share.”
Walter asked: “Do you support a political party?”
A soldier said: “The Bolsheviks!” The others cheered.
Walter was pleased. “Are you party members?”
They shook their heads.
Feodor said: “I used to support the Socialist Revolutionaries, but they have let us down.” Others nodded agreement. “Kerensky has brought back flogging,” Feodor added.
“And he has ordered a summer offensive,” Walter said. He could see, in front of his eyes, a stack of ammunition boxes, but he did not refer to them, for fear of calling the Russians’ attention to the obvious possibility that he was a spy. “We can see from our aircraft,” he added.
Feodor said to Gavrik: “Why do we need to attack? We can make peace just as well from where we are now!” There was a mutter of agreement.
Walter said: “So what will you do if the order to advance is given?”
Feodor said: “There will have to be a meeting of the soldiers’ committee to discuss it.”
“Don’t talk shit,” said Gavrik. “Soldiers’ committees are no longer allowed to debate orders.”
There was a rumble of discontent, and someone at the edge of the circle muttered: “We’ll see about that, comrade Sergeant.”
The crowd continued to grow. Perhaps Russians could smell booze at a distance. Walter handed out two more bottles. By way of explanation to the new arrivals, he said: “German people want peace just as much as you. If you don’t attack us, we won’t attack you.”
“I’ll drink to that!” said one of the newcomers, and there was a ragged cheer.
Walter feared the noise would attract the attention of an officer, and wondered how he could get the Russians to keep their voices down despite the schnapps; but he was already too late. A loud, authoritative voice said: “What’s going on here? What are you men up to?” The crowd parted to give passage to a big man in the uniform of a major. He looked at Walter and said: “Who the hell are you?”
Walter’s heart sank. It was undoubtedly the officer’s duty to take him prisoner. German intelligence knew how the Russians treated their POWs. Being captured by them was a sentence of lingering death by starvation and cold.
He forced a smile and offered the last unopened bottle. “Have a drink, Major.”
The officer ignored him and turned to Gavrik. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Gavrik was not intimidated. “The men have had no dinner today, Major, so I couldn’t make them refuse a drink.”
“You should have taken him prisoner!”
Feodor said: “We can’t take him prisoner, now that we’ve drunk his booze.” He was slurring already. “It wouldn’t be fair!” he finished, and the others cheered.
The major said to Walter: “You’re a spy, and I ought to blow your damned head off.” He touched the holstered gun at his belt.
The soldiers shouted protests. The major continued to look angry, but he said no more, clearly not wanting a clash with the men.
Walter said to them: “I’d better leave you. Your major is a bit unfriendly. Besides, we have a brothel just behind our front line, and there’s a blond girl with big tits who may be feeling a bit lonely… ”
They laughed and cheered. It was half-true: there was a brothel, but Walter had never visited it.
“Remember,” he said. “We won’t fight if you don’t!”
He scrambled out of the trench. This was the moment of greatest danger. He got to his feet, walked a few paces, turned, waved, and walked on. They had satisfied their curiosity and all the schnapps was gone. Now they might just take it into their heads to do their duty and shoot the enemy. He felt as if his coat had a target printed on the back.
Darkness was falling. Soon he would be out of sight. He was only a few yards from safety. It took all his willpower not to break into a sprint-but he felt that might provoke a shot. Gritting his teeth, he walked with even strides through the litter of unexploded shells.
He glanced back. He could not see the trench. That meant they could not see him. He was safe.
He breathed easier and walked on. It had been worth the risk. He had learned a lot. Although this section was showing no white flags, the Russians were in poor shape for battle. Clearly the men were discontented and rebellious, and the officers had only a weak hold on discipline. The sergeant had been careful not to cross them and the major had not dared to take Walter prisoner. In that frame of mind it was impossible for soldiers to put up a brave fight.
He came within sight of the German line. He shouted his name and a prearranged password. He dropped down into the trench. A lieutenant saluted him. “Successful sortie, sir?”
“Yes, thanks,” said Walter. “Very successful indeed.”
Katerina lay on the bed in Grigori’s old room, wearing only a thin shift. The window was open, letting in the warm July air and the thunder of the trains that passed a few steps away. She was six months pregnant.
Grigori ran a finger along the outline of her body, from her shoulder, over one swollen breast, down again to her ribs, up over the gentle hill of her belly, and down her thigh. Before Katerina he had never known this easygoing joy. His youthful relations with women had been hasty and short-lived. To him it was a new and thrilling experience to lie beside a woman after sex, touching her body gently and lovingly but without urgency or lust. Perhaps this was what marriage meant, he thought. “You’re even more beautiful pregnant,” he said, speaking in a low murmur so as not to wake Vlad.
For two and a half years he had acted as father to his brother’s son, but now he was going to have a child of
