We quickly crossed the forest and took to the fields. The snow was melting on the plowed earth, we sank into it up to our calves; between each plot of land ran rivulets full of water bordered with barbed-wire fences, not tall but hard to pass. Then we traveled on little dirt paths, also muddy, but easier, which we had to leave whenever we approached villages. It was tiring, but the air was brisk and the countryside deserted and quiet; on the roads, we walked at a good pace, Thomas and I a little ridiculous in our dress uniforms with our legs all smeared with mud. Piontek carried the supplies; our only weapons were our two service pistols, Lüger automatics. Near the end of the afternoon, we reached Rambin and paused in a small grove of beech and ash trees. It was snowing again, a wet, sticky snow that the wind blew into our faces. A little river flowed on our right; to our left, a little farther on, we could make out the railroad and the first houses. “We’ll wait for nightfall,” Thomas said. I leaned back against a tree, pulling the folds of my coat under me, and Piontek handed us hard-boiled eggs and sausages. “I couldn’t find any bread,” he said sadly. Thomas pulled out of his bag the little bottle of brandy he had taken from me and offered us each a swig. The sky was darkening, the snow flurries were beginning again. I was tired and fell asleep against the tree. When Thomas woke me my coat was dusted with snow and I was stiff from the cold. There was no moon, no light came from the village. We followed the edge of the wood up to the railroad, then walked in the dark in single file along the embankment. Thomas had taken out his pistol and I imitated him, without really knowing what I’d do with it if we were surprised. Our footsteps crunched on the snowy gravel between the tracks. The first houses, dark and silent, appeared to the right of the rails, near a large pond; the little train station at the entrance to the village was locked; we stayed on the tracks to pass through the hamlet. Finally we could put our pistols away and walk more easily. The track bed was slippery and crumbled beneath our feet, and the spacing of the ties kept us from walking at a normal pace along the tracks; at last, one by one, we left the embankment and walked alongside it in the virgin snow. A little farther on, the tracks once again went through a large pine forest. I felt tired, we’d been walking for hours, I wasn’t thinking about anything, my head remained void of any idea or any image, all my effort went into my footsteps. I was breathing heavily, and along with the crunching of our boots on the wet snow it was one of the only sounds I heard, a haunting sound. A few hours later, the moon rose behind the pines, not quite full; it cast patches of white light on the snow through the trees. Later still, we reached the edge of the forest. Beyond a large plain, a few kilometers in front of us, a yellow light danced in the sky and we could make out the crackle of guns, hollow, muffled explosions. The moon illuminated the snow on the plain and I could make out the black line of the railroad, the bushes, the little scattered woods. “They must be fighting around Belgarde,” Thomas said. “Let’s sleep a little. If we approach now, we’ll get shot by our own men.” Sleeping in the snow wasn’t very appealing to me; with Piontek, I gathered some dead branches together to form a nest, rolled myself up in a ball, and fell asleep.

A rude blow on my boot woke me up. It was still dark. Several forms were standing around us, I could see the steel of machine guns glinting. A voice whispered abruptly: “Deutsche? Deutsche?” I sat up and the shape moved back: “Excuse me, Herr Offizier,” a voice said in a strong accent. I stood up; Thomas was already standing. “You are German soldiers?” he asked then, also in a low voice. “Jawohl, Herr Offizier.” My eyes were growing used to the darkness: I could make out SS insignia and blue-white-red badges on the men’s coats. “I’m an SS-Obersturmbannführer,” I said in French. A voice exclaimed: “You see that, Roger, he speaks French!” The first soldier replied: “Our apologies, Obersturmbannführer. We couldn’t see you well in the dark. We thought you were deserters.”—“We’re from the SD,” Thomas said, also in French, with his Austrian accent. “We were cut off by the Russians and we’re trying to rejoin our lines. And you?”—“Oberschütze Lanquenoy, Third Company, First Platoon, zu Befehl, Standartenführer. We’re with the Charlemagne Division. We were separated from our regiment.” There were a dozen of them. Lanquenoy, who seemed to be leading them, explained the situation in a few words: they had been given the order to leave their position several hours ago and to retreat to the south. Most of the regiment, which they were trying to rejoin, must have been a little farther to the east, near the Persante River. “Oberführer Puaud is in charge. There are still some guys from the Wehrmacht in Belgarde, but it’s bloody hot over there.”—“Why aren’t you heading north?” Thomas asked curtly. “Toward Kolberg?”—“We don’t know, Standartenführer,” Lanquenoy said. “We don’t know anything. There are Russkoffs everywhere.”—“The road must be cut off,” another voice said.—“Are our troops still holding Körlin?” Thomas asked.—“We don’t know,” Lanquenoy said.—“Do we still hold Kolberg?”—“We don’t know, Standartenführer. We don’t know anything.” Thomas asked for a flashlight and had Lanquenoy and another soldier show us the terrain on the map. “We’re going to try to head north and reach Körlin or, if not that, Kolberg,” Thomas said finally. “Do you want to come with us? In a little group, we could pass the Russian lines, if we have to. They must just be holding the roads, maybe a few villages.”—“It’s not that we don’t want to, Standartenführer. We’d like to, I think. But we have to rejoin our buddies.”—“As you like.” Thomas had them give him a weapon and some ammunition, which he handed to Piontek. The sky was growing gradually paler, a thick layer of fog filled the hollows of the plain near the river. The French soldiers saluted us and moved off into the forest. Thomas said to me: “We’ll take advantage of the fog to get round Belgarde, fast. On the other side of the Persante, between the bend in the river and the road, there’s a forest. We’ll go that way up to Körlin. Afterward, we’ll see.” I didn’t say anything, I felt as if I had no will of my own. We went back along the railroad. The explosions, in front of us and on our right, resounded in the fog, keeping pace with our advance. When the tracks crossed a road, we lurked, waited a few minutes, then crossed it running. Sometimes too we heard the clanking of gear, boxes, canteens: armed men were passing us in the fog; and we stayed down, on the lookout, waiting for them to move away, without ever knowing if they were our own men or not. To the south, behind us, heavy gunfire was starting up; in front of us, the noises were getting more distinct, but they were isolated gunshots and volleys, just a few explosions, the fighting must have been winding down. In the time it took us to reach the Persante, a wind rose up and began to scatter the fog. We moved away from the railroad and hid in the reeds to observe. The metal railroad bridge had been dynamited and lay, twisted, in the gray, turbid water of the river. We waited for about fifteen minutes observing it; the fog had almost lifted now, a cold sun glowed in the gray sky. Behind us, to the right, Belgarde was burning. The ruined bridge didn’t seem to be guarded. “If we’re careful, we could cross on the beams,” Thomas murmured. He stood up, and Piontek followed him, the Frenchmen’s submachine gun raised. From the shore, the crossing looked easy, but once we were on the bridge, the girders turned out to be treacherous, wet and slippery. We had to hang on the outside of the deck, just above the water. Thomas and Piontek crossed safely. A few meters from the shore, my reflection drew my gaze; it was blurred, deformed by the movements of the surface; I leaned over to see it more clearly, my foot slipped and I fell to meet it. Tangled in my heavy coat, I sank for a second into the cold water. My hand found a metal bar, I caught hold, hoisted myself back to the surface; Piontek, who had turned back, pulled me out onto the bank, and I lay there, dripping, coughing, furious. Thomas was laughing and his laughter added to my anger. My cap, which I had slipped into my belt before crossing, was safe; I had to take off my boots to empty the water, and Piontek helped me wring out my coat as best we could. “Hurry up,” Thomas whispered, still laughing. “We can’t stay here.” I felt my pockets, my hand encountered the book I had brought and then forgotten. The sight of the soaking, curling pages made my stomach turn. But there was nothing for it, Thomas was hurrying me, I put it back in my pocket, slung my wet coat over my shoulders and started off again.