Katczinsky joins us.
Stanislaus Katczinsky,
Kat.
the leader of our group,
he has his qualifications.
operating under Kat’s orders.
That is Kat.
Shrewd, cunning, hard-bitten,
a remarkable nose for dirty weather, good food, soft jobs.
He has a sixth sense.
Katczinsky is the smartest man I know.
Of course Kat knows it.
He knows all.
We couldn’t do it without Katczinsky.
Kat takes charge.
Kat shakes his head.
Katczinsky merely says
Kat condemns it.
Kat growls. No one protests.
Kat says
It’s Good Kat is here.
That is Kat.
Kat looks and says, “Come with me.”
“Where to, Kat?”
Katczinsky got angry: just the right mood.
He can’t get it out of his head.
Kat is restive, that’s a bad sign.
If he says it, the sentence has the sharpness of a bayonet.
That is Kat.
Kat sits beside me. He likes to talk.
I listen: I hear muffled voices. To judge by the tone, it’s Kat talking.
Kat listens.
Kat shrugs his shoulders.
He gives me good advice.
Here with Kat: this is where I belong.
Kat stands before me, his gigantic, stooping shadow falls upon me,
like home.
That is Kat.
Kat falls.
He is silent and looks at me.
“Do you remember, Kat?”
He nods.
“Shall we go on, Kat?”
“Must, Paul.”
It is impossible that Kat --
Kat my friend,
Kat,
who I know as I know no other man,
Kat with whom I have shared these years --
it is impossible that perhaps I will not see Kat again.
Suddenly Kat... he stammers.
I do not understand him.
He lies still.
He is dead.
Kat is dead.
Stanislaus Katczinsky had died.
We are alone.
“May I never forget you!”
