the empty dish and sprawled out comfortably on the couch. “When we had grasped that, in a world of shrapnel, splinters and vermin, it was the only thing that made sense. Not the Fatherland, not conquering yet another barbaricum bridge-head, but friendship …”
“Don’t be so pompous, Mock, old comrade.” Rühtgard smiled at the sight of two waiters laying the table with silver dishes whose dome coverswere embellished with the two-headed Austrian eagle. “Look” – he lifted a cover as if to sit it on his head – “This is what our helmets looked like …”
Mock laughed out loud as a drop of hot fat rolled off the cover and landed on Rühtgard’s neck. While the doctor whacked himself violently, as if stung by a mosquito, Mock filled the empty glasses, gradually increasing the distance between bottle and glass. The last drops fell from a height little short of ten centimetres.
“Pathos was a poor background to what we experienced during those two years.” Rühtgard got to his feet and drew the curtains of their alcove. “The wrong background. Friendship and comradeship aren’t born in the face of death. There are no friends then. Everyone faces death alone, and stinks of fear. Our comradeship was sealed by the daily humiliation, the daily contempt we experienced. Do you know when I realized that?”
“When?” Mock asked, lifting the covers off the dishes.
“When we had to crap on command.” Rühtgard broke off to clink glasses with Mock and swallow the burning liquid. His throat barely accepted it. “Captain Mantzelmann would come along and order the entire platoon to crap at the same time. Even me, a medical orderly. When he decided it was time to crap, we’d squat in the trenches with the icy wind lashing our backsides. Mantzelmann marked out the time for us to crap. Pity he didn’t mark out the time to die. Mock, damn it!” he yelled. “There’s only the two of us in this world! You and I!”
“Be quiet, and stop drinking.” Mock tied a starched napkin around his neck. “You’re not having supper, so you shouldn’t drink so much. Three large shots are more than enough.”
Four browned goose necks landed on Mock’s plate. He cut this delicacy into strips and arranged them on round, crunchy slices of potato. Enclosed in a sheath of goose skin was a stuffing made from onion, liver and goose fat. Mock placed soft, braised onion rings on top of thesepyramids and began a concentrated assault. He ate slowly and methodically. First he plunged his cutlery into a dish where hunks of roast pork swam in a thick sauce of flour and cream. On top of a piece of meat now speared on his fork, he balanced a mound of potato and goose. When he had devoured this complicated formation he slid a layer of fried cabbage with crackling onto his fork as if it were a shovel. The plates gradually emptied.
“We spoke about women later,” Rühtgard said, lighting a cigarette, “when the Russians started singing their dumkas. † We’d stare at the starry sky and each one of us would think about warm bodies, soft breasts, smooth thighs …”
“Cornelius, stop making things up.” Mock pushed aside the empty plates, lit a cigarette and poured another two shots from the carafe. “We didn’t talk about women , but about one woman. Each one of us spoke about one woman. I told you about my romantic ideal, about the mysterious, red-headed, unknown Lorelei from the hospital in Königsberg, while you only talked about …”
“My daughter, Christel.” Rühtgard drank without waiting for Mock. “About my little princess Christel who now flirts with men, who smells of rutting …”
“Let it go.” Mock was suddenly very thirsty. He pulled the curtain aside to summon a waiter with a frothy tankard. “Your little princess is now a grown-up young lady and ought to be getting married.”
Rühtgard threw off his jacket and began to unbutton his waistcoat.
“Mock, my brother!” he shouted. “Our friendship is
“Don’t be so pompous, Mock, old comrade.” Rühtgard smiled at the sight of two waiters laying the table with silver dishes whose dome coverswere embellished with the two-headed Austrian eagle. “Look” – he lifted a cover as if to sit it on his head – “This is what our helmets looked like …”
Mock laughed out loud as a drop of hot fat rolled off the cover and landed on Rühtgard’s neck. While the doctor whacked himself violently, as if stung by a mosquito, Mock filled the empty glasses, gradually increasing the distance between bottle and glass. The last drops fell from a height little short of ten centimetres.
“Pathos was a poor background to what we experienced during those two years.” Rühtgard got to his feet and drew the curtains of their alcove. “The wrong background. Friendship and comradeship aren’t born in the face of death. There are no friends then. Everyone faces death alone, and stinks of fear. Our comradeship was sealed by the daily humiliation, the daily contempt we experienced. Do you know when I realized that?”
“When?” Mock asked, lifting the covers off the dishes.
“When we had to crap on command.” Rühtgard broke off to clink glasses with Mock and swallow the burning liquid. His throat barely accepted it. “Captain Mantzelmann would come along and order the entire platoon to crap at the same time. Even me, a medical orderly. When he decided it was time to crap, we’d squat in the trenches with the icy wind lashing our backsides. Mantzelmann marked out the time for us to crap. Pity he didn’t mark out the time to die. Mock, damn it!” he yelled. “There’s only the two of us in this world! You and I!”
“Be quiet, and stop drinking.” Mock tied a starched napkin around his neck. “You’re not having supper, so you shouldn’t drink so much. Three large shots are more than enough.”
Four browned goose necks landed on Mock’s plate. He cut this delicacy into strips and arranged them on round, crunchy slices of potato. Enclosed in a sheath of goose skin was a stuffing made from onion, liver and goose fat. Mock placed soft, braised onion rings on top of thesepyramids and began a concentrated assault. He ate slowly and methodically. First he plunged his cutlery into a dish where hunks of roast pork swam in a thick sauce of flour and cream. On top of a piece of meat now speared on his fork, he balanced a mound of potato and goose. When he had devoured this complicated formation he slid a layer of fried cabbage with crackling onto his fork as if it were a shovel. The plates gradually emptied.
“We spoke about women later,” Rühtgard said, lighting a cigarette, “when the Russians started singing their dumkas. † We’d stare at the starry sky and each one of us would think about warm bodies, soft breasts, smooth thighs …”
“Cornelius, stop making things up.” Mock pushed aside the empty plates, lit a cigarette and poured another two shots from the carafe. “We didn’t talk about women , but about one woman. Each one of us spoke about one woman. I told you about my romantic ideal, about the mysterious, red-headed, unknown Lorelei from the hospital in Königsberg, while you only talked about …”
“My daughter, Christel.” Rühtgard drank without waiting for Mock. “About my little princess Christel who now flirts with men, who smells of rutting …”
“Let it go.” Mock was suddenly very thirsty. He pulled the curtain aside to summon a waiter with a frothy tankard. “Your little princess is now a grown-up young lady and ought to be getting married.”
Rühtgard threw off his jacket and began to unbutton his waistcoat.
“Mock, my brother!” he shouted. “Our friendship is
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