He brought me through some hallways freshly painted gray and pale green to a large room where some sick and lightly wounded were lying in a row of beds. I didn’t see Voss. A doctor, a slightly stained white smock over his uniform, came toward us: “Yes?”—“He wants to see Leutnant Voss,” explained the operations officer, pointing to me. “I’ll leave you here,” he said. “I have work to do.”—“Thank you,” I said.—“Come along,” said the doctor. “We’ve isolated him.” He took me to a door in the back of the room. “Can I talk to him?” I asked.—“He won’t hear you,” the doctor replied. He opened the door and had me go in before him. Voss was lying under a sheet, his face damp, a little green. His eyes were closed and he was groaning softly. I went up to him. “Voss,” I said. There was no reaction. Yet the sounds kept coming from his mouth, not really groans, but rather articulate though incomprehensible sounds, like a child babbling—the translation, in a private and mysterious language, of what was going on inside him. I turned to the doctor: “Will he make it?” The doctor shook his head: “I don’t even understand how he made it this far. We couldn’t operate, it wouldn’t do any good.” I turned back to Voss. The sounds continued uninterruptedly, a description beyond language of his agony. It chilled me, I had trouble breathing, as in a dream where someone is talking and you don’t understand. But here there was nothing to understand. I pushed back a lock of hair that had fallen onto his eyelid. He opened his eyes and stared at me, but these eyes were empty of all recognition. He had reached that private, closed space from which you never return to the surface, but from which he hadn’t sunk deeper yet. Like an animal, his body was struggling with what was happening to him, and these sounds—that’s what they were, too, animal sounds. From time to time the sounds broke off so he could pant, sucking air through his teeth with an almost liquid noise. Then it began again. I looked at the doctor: “He’s suffering. Can’t you give him some morphine?” The doctor looked annoyed: “We’ve already given him some.”—“Yes, but he needs more.” I stared at him straight in the eyes; he hesitated, tapped his teeth with a fingernail. “I’m almost out of it,” he said finally. “We had to send all our stock to Millerovo for the Sixth Army. I have to keep what I have for cases that are still operable. Anyway, he’s going to die soon.” I kept staring at him. “You have no authority to give me orders,” he added.—“I’m not giving you an order, I’m asking you,” I said coldly. He blanched. “All right, Hauptsturmführer. You’re right…. I’ll give him some.” I didn’t move, didn’t smile. “Do it now. I’ll watch.” A brief tic twisted the doctor’s lips. He went out. I watched Voss: the strange, terrifying sounds, forming almost by themselves, kept coming out of his mouth, which was working convulsively. An ancient voice, come from the beginning of time; but if it was a language, it wasn’t saying anything, and expressed only its own disappearance. The doctor returned with a syringe, uncovered Voss’s arm, tapped to make the vein appear, and gave him the injection. Little by little the sounds spaced out, his breathing calmed down. His eyes had closed. Now and then another block of sounds came, like a final buoy thrown overboard. The doctor had gone out. I gently touched Voss’s cheek with the back of my fingers, and went out too. The doctor was bustling about with a manner that expressed both annoyance and resentment. I thanked him briefly, then clicked my heels and raised my arm. The doctor didn’t return my salute and I went out without a word.
