Salt of the Earth

by Józef Wittlin

  But none of these embittered mothers gave a thought to the end of the world.

  Alarm first began to spread in Pokuttya in the middle of August, when the word “evacuation” was mentioned for the first time since the outbreak of war. It drifted in from the towns, where it had been unearthed, exhumed from the musty cellars of oblivion along with expressions like “victory”, “calamity”, “captivity”, “prisoners”, “attack”, “heroic death”. These obsolete expressions, consigned to obscurity like sleeping bats, acquired rosy cheeks and became colourful on contact with fresh air, gaining a new lease of life on everybody’s lips.

  Although the word “victory” was predominant and although the Emperor was continually gaining victories in Serbia, Galicia and in the Kingdom of Poland, in the district of Śniatyn the canker of doubt had embedded itself in the residents’ hearts. Rumours from Lwów had it that the Muscovites were coming. At first they circulated secretly, whispered fearfully in inns and at drinking fountains, until on one warm starlit night the filthy little windowpanes of the Hutsul huts began reverberating. By then, everyone in Topory was openly saying that the Muscovites were coming. The bearded, shaggy muzhik with his long spear and nagaika—the Cossack lead-weighted whip. Holding between his teeth—strong as a horse’s—a sharp knife. He rides his swift little steed, trampling under its hooves all that lies in his path. The stench of tar and vodka is smelt a mile off. He smashes windows with his rifle butt, robs the Jewish shops and inns, and when he is especially enraged he even burns down entire villages. He slashes the Jews’ eiderdowns, cuts off Jews’ beards and gives Jewish women big bellies. So it is a good idea to hang an image of the Virgin Mary over your doorway, or chalk up a cross. Although—they say—when the Muscovites are at their most vicious, Christians are not spared either. It is only the “Muscovite sympathizer elements” that are spared, those who assist them by placing logs on the track to derail trains taking Austro-Hungarian troops to the front line, or in some other way. At the invitation of the Muscovites these “elements” surface like greasy spots enticed out of the cloth by an iron and a sheet of blotting paper. They emerge suddenly from under the earth, and it turns out that they have been living among us for years, but no one in the village knew about them, not even the village headman, the parish clerk, the gendarme, or even the priest. If the priest is not one of them, that is. As recently as last Sunday, they hanged two Ruthenian priests and a deacon in Sokal for signalling to the Muscovites from the bell-tower. And in Tarnopol district they hanged five peasants for no reason at all. According to reports doing the rounds of the Hutsul inns it went like this: no sooner had the Hungarians fled from the village, leaving behind everything except their horses, than the Cossacks appeared. They came across a group of daring peasants who had not hidden in their huts like the others, but had gone to see what they could retrieve from the abandoned wagons—bread, preserves, rum, tobacco. At first, the Cossacks ordered that it should all be handed over and loaded onto their wagons. Then they took them among their horses and questioned them about this and that. So the men took fright and told all they knew. That there were this many Hungarians, not more than two squadrons, and that they had all fled—about half an hour ago. (They lied and lied and lied, for patriotic reasons, because there had been about five Hungarian squadrons.)

  “Will you show us which way the Hungarians fled?” asked the Cossack esaul. How could you not show him when he had a pistol and a sabre and a nagaika and all his men were armed to the teeth? Well, the men showed him, didn’t they? Meanwhile, other people had emerged from their huts, keeping their distance and watching how certain men were guiding the Cossacks. That same day two Russian infantry regiments entered the village. The officers went straight to the manor house, of course, and made merry with the squire until the early hours. They played the piano extremely well. The other ranks remained in the village. They ate and drank, danced the trepak and slept with the wenches. At dawn they marched on, but didn’t get very far because the Hungarians ambushed them in the woods, causing some casualties and taking prisoners, and the rest took to their heels—goodness knows which way they went. The Hungarians returned to the village. They immediately found out which of the peasants had assisted the Muscovites, and summarily hanged five of them from the chestnut trees, right by the Orthodox church. Three others were tied up with ropes and taken to Lwów prison. There, in accordance with martial law, they would face criminal charges under paragraph 327 of the military code.

  On 18th August, the birthday of His Majesty the Emperor, His Excellency the Governor of Galicia Korytowski arrived in Vienna. During a special audience, he placed at the foot of the throne evidence of the love, loyalty and attachment felt by the whole population of the crown lands. So much evidence had accumulated that it formed a great mountain at the foot of the throne and His Majesty experienced considerable difficulty in making his way to his study.

  Piotr Niewiadomski was still carrying out his duties as a signalman at box 86. Appalling reports of traitors, spies and hanged Polish priests got through even to him. He contemplated what one ought to do if the enemy demanded assistance. If you didn’t give it to them they would shoot you like a dog. (Here he glanced fearfully and tenderly at Bass. The dog was lying on the floor, licking his paw.) If you lied they would also shoot you, when they found out that you had tricked them. And if out of fear you did as they asked, your days were numbered; your own soldiers would hang you as soon as they returned. Someone would always give you away. There are so many enemies.

  Piotr began counting his enemies. He did not have many, but there were always enough of them for an informer to materialize. Such a person was Fedko Semeniuk, for example. He had hated Piotr for years because of a bout of fisticuffs that had broken out over a game of cards. He would be sure to inform. But what was an innocent man to do when forced to show the Muscovites which way to go? Could a Hutsul really predict tactical manoeuvres and strategic retreats? No, Hutsuls were not brainy enough for that! A Hutsul expects that if our army has deserted the village and its place has been taken by the Russians, that’s how it will stay until the end of the world, or at any rate until the war is over. Till Christmas, that is. It is best to be deaf and dumb, like that Wasyl Horoch from Czernielica. Only deaf-mutes are safe in wartime. The enemy does not ask them any questions. If it does, all it gets is “ermmmm”.

  So Piotr Niewiadomski contemplated quite seriously whether he should not pretend to be a deaf-mute if the Muscovites occupied Topory.

  He burst out laughing so loudly that Bass was startled. What silly thoughts come into one’s head! Pretend to be a deaf-mute! Above all, the Muscovites are still far from Topory. (Although he was certain about that, he still glanced in the direction of the window to make sure it wasn’t rattling. It wasn’t.) And then, who around here is going to help out the Muscovites, anyway? An Imperial and Royal soldier? As if he was not bound to His Illustrious Majesty by the oath sworn by Almighty God in Śniatyn? Piotr was provided with an oath as a document bears a seal, as the deceased are administered the extreme unction. In four weeks’ time at the latest he would personally be going to strike at the Muscovites on behalf of the Emperor. In four weeks’ time… But they are saying that the Muscovites have already taken Czerniowce. Our illustrious regiments, the Imperial Fusiliers with their plumed helmets, the Vienna Deutschmeister and the proud Windischgrätz Dragoons are said to have been routed. The muzhiks are driving them into captivity like cattle. What about the oath? What about the loyalty? What will become of the entire 1873 intake, if the Muscovites reach Topory before Piotr is even in training?

  So Piotr Niewiadomski became distressed.

  The thoughts of the lone signalman in box 86 on the Lwów–Czerniowce–Ickany line were interrupted by the ringing of the bell. Topory-Czernielica station was signalling the approach of a train. Piotr donned his official cap, that tangible evidence of his loyalty to the Emperor. He went out to stand in front of the signal b
ox with his little red flag. Deeply convinced that in doing so he was serving the Emperor, he began to turn the winch. He carried out his government function slowly, almost solemnly. He just regretted that no one witnessed it. The wires twanged and the barrier came down. And half of the burden fell from Piotr’s heart. That was a good thing. As long as he felt he was useful, unpleasant thoughts were unable to penetrate to his soul. The level-crossing barrier barred the way to evil thoughts.

  A long goods train full of troops passed before Piotr in the direction of Kołomyja. Soldiers had not travelled in that direction for ages.

  Piotr returned to the signal box and removed his cap, carefully placing it on the shelf above his bed. Around it played the aura of Imperial majesty.

  Anxiety grew in Topory day by day, and especially in Piotr Niewiadomski’s heart. It almost turned to panic when troop trains began to appear on their line with increasing frequency. The soldiers, who had been so cheerful, proud and full of song two weeks earlier, were now silent, sombre and angry. The army returning from the front line looked like an army of extinguished lanterns. And even the wagons that brought them from abandoned positions back into the heartland bore the marks of defeat. They were bespattered with mud, battered, and stank of death. They sped at a crazy pace, as though falling into an abyss. They bore no trace of the drawings or slogans that had so recently reflected the soldiers’ high spirits. Now they sped, crude and bare, like the naked truth of a war for which the army had already lost heart. Day and night, Piotr saw trains, trains, trains. The endless ringing of signal bells kept him awake, as in the first days of mobilization. He heard a buzzing in his head like that in Father Makarucha’s beehive. The passenger coaches carried the officers. They were unkempt, unwashed, unshaven for days, without their tunics and with no insignia of rank, like ordinary people. All the finery had faded, the show was over. In one of the compartments Piotr noticed some officers playing cards. They were playing rummy, trying to forget their defeat. There followed numerous cattle wagons packed with soldiers. Some were barefoot, lying on rotting straw. Their faces wore deadly serious expressions and they appeared withdrawn into themselves, oblivious to the world around them. Some had heads bandaged with filthy, bloodstained rags or an arm in a sling. At the larger stations people stared at them, eager to catch a glimpse of those returning from the jaws of death. For all these soldiers had witnessed death; they had cheated it, and now life reeked of rotten corpses. All life’s affairs had become insignificant in their eyes, tobacco excepted. Nearly all of them were smoking, eagerly inhaling the smoke of the rationed cigarettes, the soldier’s last remaining solace.

  At other times Piotr saw wagons marked with a huge red cross. They passed by very slowly, giving off a sharp stench of disinfectants. Piotr knew that these wagons were carrying slaughtered human flesh. He listened out for any sound of groaning, but the Red Cross wagons were as quiet as the grave. They passed by slowly, softly, silently, as though on rubber wheels. In the corridors and at the windows stood young women all in white, like angels. Occasionally, one of the angels would be smoking a cigarette.

  “Crosses, more crosses,” thought Piotr, and he wondered whether he ought not to raise his cap and cross himself at the sight of those red crosses.

  The wagons carrying cattle to be slaughtered were less disturbing, since it was prescribed that human flesh, cannon-fodder, had to be fed on the flesh of animals. Horses too were escaping from the front line. Entire stables of horses, gently nuzzling each other’s sad heads, passed by the signal box. Now and then, the approach of a train was heralded by an ominous rumbling sound. That was the flatbed wagons carrying artillery. The sprays of birch adorning the gun-carriages on the day they had set off had long since withered. The heavy and light artillery was now returning stripped of its splendour, the green paint peeling off like scabby skin. The artillery was covered by tarpaulins, hiding its shame, you might say. On every wagon a motionless rifleman stood guard over the guns. Mud-spattered cars with smashed windscreens and ripped tyres, the remnants of military equipment, the incarnation of taxes extracted from citizens—search-lights, coils of barbed wire, sheets of corrugated iron, field telephones, field kitchens—continually flashed by on flatbed wagons in a westerly direction. Imperial property must be salvaged! Like itinerant circuses, on went these pitiful supply trains, hurriedly withdrawn from endangered front-line positions. In the end the ground rumbled day and night and Piotr could no longer tell whether it was caused by the trains or by approaching artillery fire.

  On 20th August, around seven o’clock in the morning, he spotted a strange train packed with civilians. It could not be an ordinary passenger train; they were no longer running. These were goods wagons with benches installed. Israel was on the move. It had with it live geese, cushions, cradles, pots and pans, sacks, boxes and a crowd of screaming children. Jewish women in shiny black wigs were bustling about just as at home, even cooking on Primus stoves. Some of the men were tightly wrapped from head to toe in long white tablecloths, bordered at the bottom with strips of black and embroidered at the top in gold and silver. The shimmering gold and silver covered their foreheads, to which they had attached little square black boxes. Beards—grey, ginger and dark, black beards—trembled among the gold and silver embroidery of the tablecloths, giving these Jews the appearance of ridiculous, pathetic kings. They rocked rhythmically to and fro to the rhythm of the clanking wagon-wheels, as though they wanted to impart to this clanking some new, more exalted meaning.

  It was not the first time that Piotr had seen Jews at prayer. As a child, he sometimes used to go and peer in at the windows of an old inn, now demolished, where the Jews assembled every Saturday for prayers. In Topory there was no synagogue. Large candles burned in brass candlesticks, and praying, bearded Jews in similar shawls were swaying over massive books, virtually dancing, crying and wailing out loud. The Jews’ singing scared Piotr, but at the same time amused him. One Saturday, as he stood staring and listening underneath the windows, something happened that he was unable to comprehend until long afterwards. The door was suddenly opened, and there stood a tall red-bearded Jew in a velvet smock tied at the waist with a black cord. Instead of shoes he wore soft slippers, with white stockings like a young lady’s reaching up to his knees. On his head he had a weird square fox-brush cap. You could have sworn that the cap and the beard were one and the same thing. Piotr took fright. He thought this Jew had seen him through the window and had come to beat him. But the Jew took him by the hand, asking in a very kindly voice:

  “You’ll put out the candles, won’t you, lad? You’ll get five cents on Sunday.” Piotr didn’t understand what he meant and suspected some dangerous trap. However, he did not run away. He stood on the spot, his mouth gaping wide as though enchanted by the lure of this mysterious, alien world. Then he followed the red-bearded man into the room where the Jews were praying. In the doorway he took off his cap, not so much out of respect as out of fear. In a flash, Red-Beard replaced it on his head so forcibly that it hurt. Piotr was trembling all over. But no one present condescended to so much as look at him. They were all removing their tablecloths, folding them carefully. They then kissed them tenderly and packed them away into their little velvet bags. Piotr Niewiadomski extinguished the candles for the Jews. On the Sunday he really did receive five cents. That was years ago. But the memory of the mysterious task he had carried out once upon a time, not even knowing what his role had been, came back to him at the sight of those wagons, and his dormant fear of Jews raised its head again.

  “They are always praying,” he thought, “and yet they will end up in hell anyway.” Piotr believed in hell.

  The prayer wagon disappeared from sight. No candles had been burning in it. But in the next wagon, Piotr noticed an unlit table lamp with a light green shade. A pretty young girl with large, dark eyes, looking more like a gypsy than Jewish, was clutching it to her breast as if it was not a lamp but a very dear child. She woul
d not let go of this lamp—as though it was the only one in the world—the only source of light, intended to light up the darkness of exile for these nomadic peoples. Where were they bound? Had they resumed their wanderings, interrupted centuries earlier? This railway line was bearing Israel across the desert, beyond which their promised land awaits. This land, by the grace of Emperor Franz Joseph, is in Moravia. Wooden huts will be the refuge for fugitives of the faith of Moses from Galicia.

  These were the scenes as the evacuation of Pokuttya proceeded. State officials with their families, and some landowners and merchants, were also fleeing from the Muscovites. The Hutsuls were not running away. Hutsuls never run away from anyone; after all, you can’t take your land, your cows and your sheep with you.

  Piotr’s duties were exceptionally onerous in those days, but he managed. He had acquired a fondness for the railway—that is, for the section entrusted to him. Every day, he walked the four kilometres to signal box 87, beyond which his responsibilities ended. He left his post only when Magda visited. She stood in for him competently, just like a legitimate signalman’s wife. The sight of the young girl standing at her post with the little red flag had already on several occasions brought smiles to the weary faces of those who were returning from death. As if life itself had placed her on watch.