NINE

Silbermann made his way through the cars, stopping for a moment to listen to two soldiers playing accordion in a third-class compartment.

This train should be in Dresden a little before noon, he thought. If I hurry I can make the connection to Leipzig. But why hurry? What’s there for me to do in Leipzig? Ride back to Berlin, then on to Hamburg, and from Hamburg … So why rack my brain about that now? Maybe I’ll change trains en route. The more often I switch, the safer I’ll be. I should have bought a pass for the whole network. As it is I’ve practically become a permanent fixture of the German Reichsbahn.

There was a man on board whose bearing and general demeanor reminded Silbermann of the fat police spy in the train from Dortmund to Aachen. Silbermann had already run into him three times, and when he saw the man once more heading his way, he opened the door to the compartment with the soldiers and took a seat.

“Keeping spirits up I see, eh?” he said in a lively voice.

The two soldiers smiled awkwardly and paused their playing. The man Silbermann wanted to avoid stopped in the corridor, so that Silbermann could see his back through the compartment window.

“That’s right,” Silbermann exclaimed excitedly. “Life in the army. There’s still something wonderful about it.”

He glanced at the man’s back.

“When I was a soldier—you were probably just born—I saw all sorts of things. I was there at Verdun. You have no idea what that was like. Drumfire, that’s something else I tell you!” He laughed.

The two soldiers looked at him, embarrassed. They didn’t know what to make of him or how they should respond.

Silbermann kept his eye on the man’s back.

“Of course in those days you were still infants,” he said fiercely. “Infants, and now it’s your generation that’s in control. Let me tell you something”—he continued his rather disjointed speech—“you may very well have a chance to experience a war someday … and you have every right to. Just make sure you enjoy yourselves now because afterward it’s too late. Ha ha … In our company there were four of us friends, two are still alive … Becker and myself … But it was an experience all right … the war was an experience … it’s definitely an experience … as long as you don’t drop dead. You’ll see … You’ll see. It will either make real men out of you … or else corpses. An experience, no doubt about it … I was at Cambrai, too, fighting the tanks. A tank like that’s a lot more sturdy … than a hallway mirror for instance … You’ll see for yourselves! I’d like to join you … I’d like to go along once more, just to see how you take things … ha ha … Because it’s not as simple as you think, ramming a bayonet into another man’s stomach … especially when the other guy has one, too. There are two types of bullets, you see … the ones you shoot and the ones that come back … like I was saying … maybe you’ll experience that … the returns … but I won’t. But why did you stop playing? Go on and play … we always had music in my company, always! Becker had a harmonica … He could play that thing to where you completely forgot there was a war on … so keep playing, men, go on and play!”