if they were retreating as opposed to pressing forward into the hinterlands of the Russian empire. But the officer of Lev’s unit explained that by securing Lodz, the Russian advance toward Breslau in Germany would prove untenable. “We are defending Berlin.” His voice grandly rolled over the words with an enticing richness. At the mention of Berlin, the officer’s eyes misted over, as if he tookept a wife there who, at this very moment, was attending Mass, making the sign of the cross.
Lev had forgotten the heaviness of extra gear. Even his head felt heavier wearing the pointed metal helmet rather than the soft field cap. Across his chest, he’d strapped a rifle, as instructed to do when on the march. On top of his knapsack, a M1914 shelter quarter and mess tin. Connected to the lower half of his knapsack, he carried a bayonet, M1915 water bottle, and M1914 bread bag. His greatcoat, made of coarse gray cloth, sported dull brass buttons. He sweated under these layers of material and weaponry. Each man carried the exact same items in the exact same manner. No one spoke. They were too cold and the burden of equipment forced everyone to concentrate on maintaining a steady clipped pace. Lev couldn’t tell one man from another, and he knew this was the point—to unite them into one moving body for more efficient killing.
Lev instinctually looked around for Hermann, Hermann who would always drop him a wink or a grin, a secret glance acknowledging that they were not strangers in a room full of strangers. But Hermann had stayed behind at base, joking how his job in the press office reassuring Germans back home that they were achieving stunning victory after stunning victory was quite important. He pantomimed an artist bent over his work. “Coloring in the facts—that’s why they keep me here. Only yesterday did they announce our defeat at the Marne, which happened two months ago. But they call it”—Hermann had paused, lowering his voice—“the strategic release of information.”
When they’d parted, Hermann’s metallic eyes blinked as he explained strategies for survival. “Forget the Russians,” he’d said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “The real terror is nature. The snow. We’re not as used to it as they are. Frostbite’s more likely than a bullet.”
They marched for two days and then took a train to Lodz. Halfway there, the train derailed because the tracks had been blown up. The Russians had done it during their retreat. Lev and the other men crawled out of windows and smashed doors into the blinding whiteness of snow. Sharp hail drummed their helmets. The first two cars had crumpledup against the trees, leaving a pile of smoking machinery and men with entangled limbs cocked at unusual angles. There was no time to drag them out of the cars, to bury them with proper wooden crosses, to recite any kind of benediction, because the Austrians were losing to the Russians. The officer reminded them again of Berlin, of the mothers and wives they must save from the Tatar hordes. “Imagine what they could do, those eastern barbarians,” he said, his breath white and full before him. He left Lev to imagine the possibilities as they marched the rest of the way to the front, passing through abandoned town after abandoned town, the houses and shops and churches and markets closed up and cleared out, the streets echoing with the sound of their synchronized lockstep. Lev wondered if Poles huddled inside the silent buildings, afraid of their own breath, afraid to shuffle an inch lest they be discovered by their executioners or their liberators: there wasn’t much difference between the two.
They first entered through the reserve trenches, a mile behind the front line. At the edge of the forest, they passed a pile of wounded oxen baring their teeth in malicious grins, dusted with snow, frozen into uselessness. The distinct sound of cannons drummed from the front coupled with machine-gun fire. All around them,
Lev had forgotten the heaviness of extra gear. Even his head felt heavier wearing the pointed metal helmet rather than the soft field cap. Across his chest, he’d strapped a rifle, as instructed to do when on the march. On top of his knapsack, a M1914 shelter quarter and mess tin. Connected to the lower half of his knapsack, he carried a bayonet, M1915 water bottle, and M1914 bread bag. His greatcoat, made of coarse gray cloth, sported dull brass buttons. He sweated under these layers of material and weaponry. Each man carried the exact same items in the exact same manner. No one spoke. They were too cold and the burden of equipment forced everyone to concentrate on maintaining a steady clipped pace. Lev couldn’t tell one man from another, and he knew this was the point—to unite them into one moving body for more efficient killing.
Lev instinctually looked around for Hermann, Hermann who would always drop him a wink or a grin, a secret glance acknowledging that they were not strangers in a room full of strangers. But Hermann had stayed behind at base, joking how his job in the press office reassuring Germans back home that they were achieving stunning victory after stunning victory was quite important. He pantomimed an artist bent over his work. “Coloring in the facts—that’s why they keep me here. Only yesterday did they announce our defeat at the Marne, which happened two months ago. But they call it”—Hermann had paused, lowering his voice—“the strategic release of information.”
When they’d parted, Hermann’s metallic eyes blinked as he explained strategies for survival. “Forget the Russians,” he’d said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “The real terror is nature. The snow. We’re not as used to it as they are. Frostbite’s more likely than a bullet.”
They marched for two days and then took a train to Lodz. Halfway there, the train derailed because the tracks had been blown up. The Russians had done it during their retreat. Lev and the other men crawled out of windows and smashed doors into the blinding whiteness of snow. Sharp hail drummed their helmets. The first two cars had crumpledup against the trees, leaving a pile of smoking machinery and men with entangled limbs cocked at unusual angles. There was no time to drag them out of the cars, to bury them with proper wooden crosses, to recite any kind of benediction, because the Austrians were losing to the Russians. The officer reminded them again of Berlin, of the mothers and wives they must save from the Tatar hordes. “Imagine what they could do, those eastern barbarians,” he said, his breath white and full before him. He left Lev to imagine the possibilities as they marched the rest of the way to the front, passing through abandoned town after abandoned town, the houses and shops and churches and markets closed up and cleared out, the streets echoing with the sound of their synchronized lockstep. Lev wondered if Poles huddled inside the silent buildings, afraid of their own breath, afraid to shuffle an inch lest they be discovered by their executioners or their liberators: there wasn’t much difference between the two.
They first entered through the reserve trenches, a mile behind the front line. At the edge of the forest, they passed a pile of wounded oxen baring their teeth in malicious grins, dusted with snow, frozen into uselessness. The distinct sound of cannons drummed from the front coupled with machine-gun fire. All around them,
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