Not I by Joachim Fest Read Free Book Online Page A

side. Some GIs had a radio working, from which came unfamiliar music; others were standing around with mugs of coffee; others again smoked in front of their officers, and everything looked altogether relaxed and unsoldierly. Our group was led past the vehicles and into Remagen. We stopped in front of a building like a school in whose yard about a hundred prisoners were already waiting. Then five rows were formed and our escort, their helmets pushed back on their heads, distributed us over the five floors to the accompaniment of constant shouts of “Let’s go!” and “Come on!” I was assigned a place in the attic.
    There was a terrible crush under the beams and in the corners. Everyone tried to secure a sleeping space for himself, although later, as I discovered to my surprise, no one lay down to sleep; instead everyone began to exchange experiences with everyone else, about dramatic events, trouble with superiors, small skirmishing successes which in a moment grew into great battles, or the deaths of comrades. An American sergeant appeared several times and roared “Shut up!” or a barely audible “Quiet!,” but the conversations continued without interruption.
    Then suddenly, at about midnight, a bright flash and deafening blast stopped everything. For a fraction of a second (so it seemed to me later) there was an eerie silence after the hellish boom. Immediately after that everyone realized that a shell had struck the attic, and instantly an indescribable tumult broke out. The room was filled with shouts, cries for help, and chunks of masonry flying about, by the rattle of bits of roof falling down, and other sounds one couldn’t place. At the same time shoes were hurled through the air, plaster, pieces of uniform, the contents of pockets. Something damp struck me in the face. Later I discovered that it had been a torn-off shoulder strap and had smeared my head with blood. Smoke and a dreadful stench filled the air. Whoever could, picked himself up and tried to reach the stairs. The lance corporal who had lain beside me behind the roof prop and talked incessantly about his family for the last two hours stretched out his arm and said that he wasn’t going to make it away from here. I should remember him to his wife, and to Mouse and Hansi. To my question—almostunintelligible in all the noise—regarding his name and address he simply furrowed his brow, tried to find a word, and then said nothing more.
    I pushed into the throng at the top of the stairs and even managed to get a few steps down, then everything came to a standstill. An American waving a submachine gun forced his way up and shouted, this time in an unmistakable Berlin accent: “Everyone stay where he is. The gate below is locked. Otherwise I’ll shoot!” And then, again and again: “Last warning. My gun is loaded! Attention! I’ll shoot!” But finally he had to give way, because the pressure on the stairs was simply too great.
    Meanwhile, a senior American officer had appeared. A German captain had assured him “on his word of honor as an officer” that the prisoners could be left in the yard even in complete darkness; no one would escape. He had chosen “reliable people” as overseers; they had vouched for themselves with rank and name. Then the care of the wounded was discussed and a mutually acceptable solution found. At a signal the two hundred or more prisoners came out of the doors and windows into the yard and spent the night in the open in the freezing damp. The intermittent shelling had ceased. In the early hours of the morning, impatiently expected, the trucks rolled up.
    As we climbed onto the vehicles, a good-natured black American answered the question as to where we were going: France, of course. “To Paris!” he added. “But not to a brothel!” He burst out laughing. He couldn’t stop, and even a little later, as we passed the place where he was posted, he pointed at us, laughing, “No girls! No fun!”I felt a shock