A Time to Love and a Time to Die reprint Edition

Then, when Graeber arrives home, he finds his house bombed to ruin and his parents nowhere in sight. Nobody knows if they are dead or alive. As his leave draws to a close, Graeber reaches out to Elisabeth, a childhood friend. Like him, she is imprisoned in a world she did not create. But in a time of war, love seems a world away. And sometimes, temporary comfort can lead to something unexpected and redeeming. . . .

death smelled different in Russia than in Africa. In Africa, under heavy English fire, the corpses between the lines had often lain unburied for a long time, too; but the sun had worked fast. At night the smell had come over with the wind, sweet, stifling and heavy—gas had filled the dead and they had risen like ghosts in the light of the alien stars as though they were fighting one last battle, silent, hopeless, and each for himself alone—but by the next day they had already begun to shrink, to nestle against the earth with infinite weariness as if trying to crawl into it—and if later they could be brought back some were light and dried out and the ones that were found weeks after were hardly more than skeletons that rattled loosely in uniforms suddenly far too big for them. It was a dry death, in sand, sun and wind. In Russia it was a greasy, stinking death.

It had been raining for days. The snow was melting. A month earlier it had been three yards deeper. The ruined village, which at first had seemed to be nothing but charred roofs, had silently, night by night, risen higher out of the sinking snow. Window frames had crept into sight; a few nights later the archways of doors; then stairways that led down into the dirty whiteness. The snow melted and melted, and with the melting came the dead.

They were old dead. The village had been fought over several times—in November, in December, in January, and now in April. It had been taken and lost and taken again. The snowstorms had come and covered the corpses, sometimes within hours, so deep that the medical corpsmen often could not find them—until finally almost every day had thrown a new layer of white over the devastation, like a nurse stretching a sheet over a bloody, filthy bed.

First came the January dead. They lay highest and came out at the beginning of April, shortly after the snow began to slip. Their bodies were frozen stiff and their faces were gray wax.

They were buried like boards. On a little hill behind the village where the snow was not so deep it had been shoveled away and graves were hacked out of the frozen earth. It was heavy work. Only the Germans were buried. The Russians were thrown into an open paddock. They began to stink when the weather turned mild. When it got too bad snow was shoveled over them. It was not necessary to bury them; no one expected that the village would be held for any length of time. The regiment was in retreat. The advancing Russians could bury their dead themselves.

Beside the December dead were found the weapons that had belonged to the January dead. Rifles and hand grenades had sunk deeper than the bodies; sometimes steel helmets too. It was easier with these corpses to cut away the identification marks inside the uniforms; the melting show had already softened the cloth. Water stood in their open mouths as though they had drowned. In some cases a limb or two had thawed out. When they were carried off, the bodies were still stiff, but an arm and a hand would dangle and sway as though the corpse were waving, hideously indifferent and almost obscene. With all of them, when they lay in the sun, the eyes thawed first. They lost their glassy brilliance and the pupils turned to jelly. The ice in them melted and ran slowly out of the eyes—as if they were weeping.

Suddenly it froze again for several days. A crust formed on the snow and turned to ice. The snow stopped sinking. But then the sluggish, sultry wind began to blow anew.

At first only a gray fleck appeared in the withering white. An hour later it was a clenched hand stretching upward.

“There’s another,” Sauer said.

“Where?” Immermann asked.

“Over there in front of the church. Shall we dig him out?”

“What’s the use? The wind will dig him out by itself. The snow back there is still a yard or two deep, at least. This damn village is lower than anything else around here. Or do you just want to get your boots full of ice water?”

“Hell no. Any idea what’s to eat today?”

“Cabbage. Cabbage with pork and potatoes. Pork nonexistent.”

“Cabbage of course! For the third time this week!”

Sauer unbuttoned his trousers and began to urinate. “A year ago I still pissed in great arcs,” he explained morosely. “In good military fashion, the way it’s supposed to be done. I felt fine. Advance each day so-­and-­so many kilometers. Thought I’d soon be home again. Now I piss like a civilian, half-­heartedly and without pleasure.”

Immerman stuck his hand under his uniform and scratched himself comfortably. “I wouldn’t care how I pissed—if I were a civilian again.”

“Me either. But it looks like we’d go on being soldiers forever.”

“Sure. Heroes to the grave. Only the S.S. still piss in great arcs.”

Sauer buttoned up his trousers. “They can do it too. We do the dirty work and those beauties get all the honors. We fight for two or three weeks for some damn town and on the last day up come the S.S. and march into it triumphantly ahead of us. Just look at the way they’re looked after! Always the thickest coats, the best boots, and the biggest chunks of meat!”

Immermann grinned. “Now even the S.S. aren’t taking towns any more. They’re going back. Just like us.”

“Not like us. We don’t burn and shoot what we can’t carry off with us.”

Immerman stopped scratching himself. “What’s got into you today?” he asked in surprise. “You’re talking like a human being. Take care Steinbrenner doesn’t hear you or you’ll soon find yourself in one of those disciplinary companies. Look—the snow over there has settled! Now you can see a piece of the fellow’s arm.”

Sauer looked over. “If it goes on melting like this by tomorrow he’ll be hanging on a cross. He’s in the right place. Right over the cemetery.”

“Is that a cemetery there?”

“Of course. Didn’t you know? We were here once before. During our last counterattack. Around the end of October. Weren’t you with us then?”

“No.”

“Where were you? Hospital?”

“Disciplinary company.”

Sauer whistled through his teeth. “Disciplinary company! I’ll be damned! For what?”

Immermann looked at him. “Former Communist,” he said.

“What? And they let you out? How did it happen?”

“A fellow has to have luck. I’m a good mechanic. Apparently they are more useful now here than there.”

“Maybe. But as a Communist! And here in Russia! They’re always sent somewhere else.” Sauer suddenly looked at Immermann with suspicion.

Immermann grinned derisively. “Take it easy,” he said. “I haven’t turned spy. And I won’t report what you said about the S.S. That’s what you meant, wasn’t it?”

“I? Not a bit of it. Never thought of such a thing!” Sauer reached for his mess kit. “There’s the field kitchen! Quick—­otherwise we’ll only get dishwater.”

The hand grew and grew. It was not as if the snow were melting but as if the hand were slowly stretching up out of the earth—like a pale threat or a paralyzed gesture for help.

The company commander halted abruptly. “What’s that over there?”

“Some Panje or other, sir.”

Rahe looked more intently. He could recognize a piece of the faded cloth on the sleeve....