We are to lead the attack.
At 05:50 we pull in among some trees, sheltered by an incline so as not to attract enemy fire to the heavy antenna that is like a bedstead on the body of the vehicle. At our rear, medical assistants rig up a dressing station and a big green tent. In front of us lies first the ridge, then a wide clearing. After that, in the dark of the forest, the combat zone.
A moment later the Stukas begin the attack, turning in formation and diving.
The air shudders as the bombs explode.
Once they have passed, everything is still, except for the plumes of smoke from the strike.
‘Second company move forward on right flank,’ Manfred instructs the operator. ‘Up to the clearing, five hundred metres. Third in from the left.’
The concentric attack on the cauldron is under way.
_ _ _
It is raining.
Manfred has climbed the hill in front of us to get a better view.
The driver pulled the tarp over the vehicle and fastened it to the antenna half an hour ago, the rain keeps on and I keep punching the tarp to get rid of the accumulated water.
I can see only a thin sliver of sky, the top of the bushes and grass on the hill.
Now and then Manfred enters my field of vision with his binoculars.
Three units are in action, two bands of shock troops proceeding with three or four hundred metres between them over the hills, below them a broad line of skirmishers to pick up the fugitives if any should slip past the first two lines.
Enemy contact just after seven o’clock.
Voices, frantic, from the front, the stutter of MGs, slow Russian sub-machine guns, minutes of transmission.
Then silence, more shots, more calls, smoke grenades pumped into what turns out to be an empty underground bunker between ten and eleven o’clock. Silence again.
For some time now reports have merely noted positions. I mark them down in red pencil on the map.
I punch the tarp.
Manfred pokes his head inside.
‘Why is nothing happening? Where the fuck are they?’
_ _ _
Half an hour later we are sitting around in rain capes eating boiled corn from the primus stove. It is still raining, the clouds are up close.
Manfred has the hatbox between his legs.
The heat is insufferable.
‘Do you think he’s in there? Goga?’ he says, attending to his teeth with a toothpick. ‘Or is it all just a figment?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘This. How we got here. The logic of it: the cockerel tattoo, Vorkuta, shibboleth, the twin from Zaludok, Goga. Is it just an idiotic joke?’
‘I don’t know. Perhaps. But who would be the idiot then?’
He swallows his food, licks his fingers. He unclasps the lid of the hatbox and lifts out the head, holds it out towards me in both hands.
‘Maybe he is.’
Elias Bronstejns’s green glass eyes stare out at me.
His low hairline, his oblong face.
The mouth is sewn together inside, the thread drawn out through the thick lips.
‘What if it wasn’t even him? What if it was just some maniac out of the blue?’
‘What then?’
‘In that case …’ he says, folding down the seat on the side of the vehicle and placing the head upon it. ‘In that case we’re making fools of ourselves …’
The radio crackles.
‘Faust 1 to Hermann 2. We’ve located another bunker.’
‘Hermann 2 here. State position …’ says the operator.
‘A couple of hundred metres south of Hill 11. We’ve found two exits …’
I note down the position.
‘We’ve run out of smoke grenades. Do you want us to send some men in or blow it up?’
‘Send some men in,’ Manfred says over my shoulder.
‘Understood …’
A few minutes later.
‘Faust 1 to Hermann 2.’
‘Hermann 2. Go ahead.’
‘It’s a maze down here, we can’t find the exits … do you want us to carry on or wait for smoke grenades?’
‘Any sign of the enemy?’
‘Not yet, but we’ve found ammunition and supplies …’
‘Carry on,’ Manfred barks.
‘Hang on a second …’
Manfred takes charge of the receiver.
‘Hello? This is Hermann 2,’ he barks again.
All we hear is interference, then transmission again:
Gunfire. German weapons, by the sounds of it.
‘We’re under heavy fire. The place is alive …’
A dull explosion. Silence.
Manfred looks at me.
‘Get hold of Company 3, they’re further up the hill, aren’t they?’
I check the last report.
‘Yes.’
‘Hermann 2 to Georg 2. Georg 2, are you there?’
‘Georg 2 receiving.’
‘What’s going on?’
‘I can’t see a thing, it’s heavy up here.’
‘Any estimate on the number of partisans?’
‘At least two hundred. They’ve got mortar, MGs.’
‘Any contact with Company 1?’
‘They’re coming out of the ground!’
Silence.
Transmission:
‘Faust 1 to Hermann 2.’ The company midway up the hill.
‘They’ve broken through …’
‘Where? How many?’
‘We’ve got six wounded and one dead.’
‘How many got through?’
The soldier confers with someone in the background, we hear shouts, explosions.
‘Twenty, thirty, at least … They’re heading down …’
‘Where to?’
‘Straight towards you.’
Manfred looks at me again.
‘Who have we got here?’
‘Orpos, one Hiwi platoon, one SS-Kavallerie platoon.’
‘Form a firing line!’ Manfred shouts at the operator. ‘Get the MGs ready!’
‘Faust 2, form a firing line, enemy headed your way,’ says the operator.
‘Faust 2 receiving. We can’t see anything.’
‘They should be with you in a couple of minutes, about twenty or thirty of them.’
Manfred raps his knuckles on the
