“So Much Snow”

Translated from the German, “Der Viele, Viele Schnee” by Wolfgang Borchert (1921-1947) by Dave Moores.

Snow hung in the branches. The machine-gunner stood in a Russian forest at a guard post near the frontline singing Christmas carols. It was actually February, but who cared; the snow lay meters deep. Snow between black trees. Snow on black-blue branches. Snow stuck to twigs, clinging to limbs, blown like cotton wool on bushes and frozen on black tree trunks. So much snow. And the machine-gunner sang Christmas carols although it was February.

Now and then you have to loose off a couple of shots or the gun freezes up. Just shoot straight ahead into the dark. That way it doesn’t freeze. Or shoot the bushes. Sure, go ahead, you can be pretty certain nobody’s hiding in there. It calms your nerves to loose off a volley every quarter hour. Otherwise, the gun freezes up. And it’s not so darn quiet when you take a shot once in a while.

That’s what they’d told him when he came on duty. “And something else, keep your earmuffs off your ears. Orders from the Regiment. On post you’ve got to keep your earmuffs off your ears. Otherwise, you’ll hear nothing. Orders are orders but you’ll hear nothing anyway, everything is still. No Ivans. For weeks now, no Ivans. So there you go, shoot now and then. Calm your nerves.” That’s what they told him.

Wolfgang Borchert 

Now he stood alone. He pulled the earmuffs off his ears and the cold pinched them with sharp fingers. Alone. And snow hung in the branches. Stuck to black-blue boughs. Heaped on bushes. Blown into hollows. So much snow. And the snow he stood in made the danger feel unreal. Made it seem so far off. Yet it could be right there behind you. Hidden. And the snow he stood in, alone in the night, alone for the first time, made the threat of the enemy seem remote. Made everything so quiet that the blood pumped loud in his ears, so loud he couldn’t ignore it. And the snow was silent.

From his left came a sound like a whisper. Now in front. Then to the right. Left again. And suddenly behind. The machine-gunner held his breath. There it was again, something whispering. The rush of blood in his ears got really loud. He tore open his coat collar, his fingers tugging, trembling. They tore open the collar so his ears weren’t covered.

There came the whispering again. Sweat ran cold from under his helmet and froze on his forehead. Froze there. It was minus forty-two degrees. Something whispered. Behind. And to the right. Straight ahead, now here. Now over there again. The machine-gunner stood in the Russian forest. Snow hung in the branches. And the blood pumped loud in his ears, sweat froze on his forehead and trickled from under his helmet.

Again, the whispering. Could be anything, anyone. The snow muffled it. Sweat froze on his forehead. Fear was loud in his ears. Because something whispered. So he sang. Sang loudly so that he wouldn’t hear the fear anymore and the whispering anymore, and so that the sweat wouldn’t freeze anymore. He sang, and felt the fear depart. He sang Christmas carols and heard no more whispers. He sang Christmas carols loud in the Russian forest. Because snow hung in the black-blue branches. So much snow.

Suddenly a twig cracked. Speechless, the machine-gunner spun around and pulled out his pistol. Here came the Sergeant, big strides pushing through the snow. Now I’m going to be shot, the machine-gunner thought. I sang on duty and now I’ll be shot. Here comes the Sergeant, and look at him run. I sang on duty and now he’s coming to shoot me. And he gripped his pistol tight in his hand.

Then the Sergeant was there. And hugged him. And looked around. And then gasped, “My God, hold me tight, Man. My God! My God!” Then he laughed and waved his hands, and laughed some more. “Christmas carols already! Aren’t we in February? We certainly are in February. Carols in this damned Russian forest? Carols? It’s this godawful silence. Christmas carols, my God again. Just hold me tight. Be quiet. There! That’s enough. Don’t laugh,” and still breathless, “Don’t laugh, you. It’s the silence, weeks long, this silence. No Ivans, nothing. And then you hear Christmas carols, yet here we are in February. But it’s the snow. There is so much of it. Don’t laugh, you. It makes us crazy, I tell you. You’ve only been here a few days but we’ve been stuck here for weeks and no Ivans, nothing. It makes you crazy, always everything still. No Ivans for weeks. Then you hear Christmas carols. Don’t laugh. But when I saw you, right then they stopped. My God, it makes you crazy, this never-ending silence.” 

The Sergeant was still breathing hard. Then he laughed and hugged him tight. And the machine gunner hugged him back. They both laughed. In the Russian forest, in February. Every so often a branch would bend under its burden of snow, and the snow slid to the ground between the blue-black boughs. And it made a sound like a whisper. Ahead at first, now on the left. Then here. So quiet. There too. Whispers everywhere. Because snow hung in the branches. So much snow.

***

Dave Moores is a retired IT exec living in Oakville. He’s been a regular at Brian’s writing classes for a while now, and during that time has two novels published by Middleroad Publishers of Toronto. The first, Windward Legs, is commercial fiction, set in the sailing milieu of Ontario’s Golden Horseshoe Region. The second, Attitude, a Young Adult story, unfolds in wintertime in small-town in Huron County. 

Dave wants everyone to know how much he owes Brian and his classmates for helping him write stories that actually meet the high bar of the publishing industry.

Wolfgang Borchert (1921-1947) was a soldier in the German Army during World War II and became a noted author and playwright before his early death due to war wounds and subsequent imprisonment for his opposition to the Nazi regime. His works are uncompromising on the issues of humanity and humanism and they continue to be studied in German Schools.

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