Once I had eaten, I felt better. While I was swallowing a kind of broth in which vague scraps of meat were floating, Thomas had explained the gist of my duties: collecting gossip, rumors, and Latrinenparolen and reporting on the soldiers’ morale; fighting Russian defeatist propaganda; and maintaining a few informers, civilians, often children, who slipped from one line to the other. “It’s something of a double-edged sword,” he said, “because they give the Russians as much information as they report to us. And also they often lie. But sometimes they’re useful.” In our quarters, a narrow room furnished with a metal bunk bed and an empty ammunition crate with an enamel basin and a cracked mirror to shave with, he had brought me a reversible winter uniform, a typical product of German ingenuity, white on one side, feldgrau on the other. “Take that for your sorties,” he said. “Your coat is fine for the steppe; in town it’s much too heavy.”—“Can we go out?”—“You’ll have to. But I’ll give you a guide.” He led me to a guard room where some Ukrainian auxiliaries were playing cards and drinking tea. “Ivan Vassilievitch!” Three men raised their heads; Thomas pointed to one, who came out and joined us in the hallway. “This is Ivan. He’s one of my best. He’ll take care of you.” He turned to him and explained something to him in Russian. Ivan, a young, blond, rather slim youth with prominent cheekbones, listened to him attentively. Thomas turned back to me: “Ivan isn’t an ace at discipline, but he knows every nook and cranny of this city and he’s very trustworthy. Never go out without him, and outside, do anything he tells you, even if you don’t see why. He speaks a little German, you’ll be able to understand each other. Capisce? I told him that he was now your personal bodyguard and that he would have to answer for your life.” Ivan saluted me and went back into the room. I felt exhausted. “Go on, go to sleep,” Thomas said. “Tomorrow night, we’re celebrating Christmas.”
