On Piotr’s stretch of track, order always reigned. No “elements” dared to place blocks on the line. His four kilometres were loyal to the Emperor and the Imperial troops could travel here as safely as in Vienna itself. How he wished he could stay on this stretch for the rest of his life! Then life would have some value, some sense. As a signalman, Piotr would feel like a lord of the manor. For ages he had wanted to be independent. As a signalman, he would answer first to himself, and only then to the stationmaster sitting three kilometres away to his right.
To the right or to the left? This question was the sore point in Piotr Niewiadomski’s heart. Although he was over forty years old, he still did not know his right from his left. Trying to work it out with his hands confused him even more. At his post, it’s true, it made no difference. You didn’t have to distinguish the relative concepts of left-handedness and right-handedness; you just used your eyes. Where Topory-Czernielica station stood—that was on the right, and on the left was the neighbouring signal box no. 87. But that is only the case when you are standing at the door of the signal box, or at the barrier. In the field, on the other hand, where the devil often twists the land around, what was on the left a few minutes ago is now suddenly on the right. Piotr had often been confused by this, but fortunately, so far… Better not to tempt the devil. Of course, Jesus himself had given people certain instructions about right and left, something to do with giving alms. Piotr took fright whenever Father Makarucha read out the relevant passage from the gospel. He felt he was being given over to the devil, but he wasn’t brave enough to confess his affliction to anyone, not even to the priest. He felt that sooner or later this defect would be revealed, and the devil would do his worst. His undoing would actually come about from over there, but which is it, left or right? Who can tell?
Oh yes, Piotr was fond of his little signal box. It was small, but it was important, and the little man who was in residence here felt he was important. Right next to it was a Dutch barn belonging to signalman Banasik. There was not much hay left in it, as Banasik’s wife had sold it to the army in good time. The crooked thatched roof, looking like a cap on the head of a massive drunkard, had collapsed. Just the four tall posts stood majestically erect, like flag-staffs with no flags. This Dutch barn was Bass’s favourite haunt. He would bury himself in what was left of the hay for an afternoon nap, and he probably caught mice too. When full of hay, the barn had the appearance of a formidable tower guarding a sovereign principality, with a black crest on a white metal shield in the form of the number 86. Now the tower lay in ruins and Piotr Niewiadomski dreamt of replenishing it with fresh hay.
That same day, at about six o’clock in the evening, all his dreams were dashed. In living memory, Topory had never been anything other than an ordinary village. It numbered two hundred and eighty-one souls (according to the latest census) and seventy-eight chimneys. The term “chimney” is not accurate, since in Pokuttya few huts boasted chimneys. So let us say seventy-eight roofs. The war, at the outset, disgorged all the best men from the huts, and about forty peasants went off, all reservists and new recruits, not counting those already serving as regulars. As though someone had threshed out the best grain with a flail, the households were left like empty sheaves lying along the crooked trail, stripped bare of their young. Along with the old people and the children, there remained only the chaff of the male population, the reserve militia. Under oath and equipped with their papers, they waited patiently for the day when they would be mobilized. However, when faced with urgent economic matters, for example haymaking, that day seemed to be continually receding instead of getting nearer. In the end, many of the recruits began to feel that the day would never come at all. And until the windowpanes began to rattle, everyone tried to live as though there was no war at all.
Until suddenly, on 20th August, the tiny village of Topory gained the elevated status of a rear-echelon headquarters in the Great War. It was not even aware of this glory bestowed on it by the grace of the army high command. Once again, gendarme Corporal Durek began going round the village with his bag and his gold tooth. Once again he issued papers to the illiterates on which their lives depended. When he turned up at the signal box, Bass no longer barked at him. He had become used to the war. Piotr was no longer afraid of the gendarmerie either. Since he had been recruited into the army he felt a kind of distant cousin to all members of the armed forces. He could now hold his head high at the sight of a rifle or bayonet.
Corporal Durek, responsible for dashing dreams in Topory-Czernielica, did not come alone. He was accompanied by some soldier of indeterminate age, encumbered from head to toe. His rifle was slung nonchalantly round his neck. He was puffing on a long-stemmed pipe. One thing about him was particularly suspicious: on the green facings of his collar, next to the bone star, shone a metal winged wheel. Very clearly, this soldier had some connection with the railway.
Today, Corporal Durek was not dressed as he had been on that evening when he brought the call-up papers. Instead of the helmet he wore an ordinary soldier’s cap, and grey-blue battledress instead of the black-and-green cloth uniform. The only indications that here was a corporal of the gendarmerie, and not an infantryman for example, were his bag and his sword. All the shiny objects, buckles and buttons, even the jubilee medal, had been removed—a sign that Topory was a rear-echelon headquarters. In place of the medal, a discrete, narrow red-and-white ribbon adorned the corporal’s chest. The Emperor’s cross was gone. “Strict incognito” is the watchword at a military staging post. The gendarme’s gold tooth glinted as before, but that was all.
“This lance corporal will be taking over your duties,” Durek announced. “As of today, the entire railway is in the hands of the army. Evacuation!”
The word “evacuation”, like all expressions of foreign origin, served to bolster the belief of the gendarmerie corporal in his personal superiority.
“Evacuation!” he repeated. He inhaled the sound like the smoke of an enjoyable cigarette. The lance corporal meanwhile removed his backpack. He made himself at home in the signal box, paying no attention to Piotr.
“Show the lance corporal what is required,” continued Durek. Mention of the soldier’s rank as an NCO was intended to emphasize Piotr’s comparative inferiority.
Piotr was aghast. Evacuation was all very well, but was he some Jew who had to flee? Where to, anyway? And what about his enlistment?
Corporal Durek had not come merely to relieve him of his post.
“Show me your papers!” he demanded, enigmatically.
Piotr fished out from his jacket pocket all the papers he possessed.
“That is not required!” declared the gendarme, contemptuously returning the certificate of baptism. But he studied the military papers closely. Piotr observed the lance corporal with apprehension.
“You’re off tomorrow!” commanded Durek, folding up the document. “You are to report to the stationmaster for your travel instructions.”
“To Stanisławów?” asked Piotr, as that was his posting.
“What do you mean, to Stanisławów? To Hungary!”
Things were becoming clearer to Piotr. The Emperor had foreseen everything, even the evacuation. The Emperor would not leave him to the Muscovites. The Emperor was now hurriedly gathering his people, like a wise farmer gathering wheat into the barn as a storm approaches. Piotr was greatly consoled. At last his heart had been relieved of the other half of the burden. The dire possibilities he had feared now ceased to exist. Now the Muscovites could enter Topory, no problem. They wouldn’t find Piotr Niewiadomski there.
Emboldened by his sense of relief, he enquired:
“Are the Muscovites far away?”
This question angered the gendarme. It was not permitted to put such questions within the confines of his jurisdiction. Assuming a stern demeanour, he did his best to look like an active soldier, only his gold tooth endowed his wor
ds with a glowing warmth:
“Don’t you dare sow hysteria! You’ll be court-martialled! There’s no cause for panic. We’re winning the war on all fronts.”
“Jo, jo!” confirmed the lance corporal ironically—he was Czech.
Durek gave him a withering glance. How tactless, to cast doubt on victory in the presence of an illiterate. Durek read military communiqués in The New Age.
“On all fronts the Russians are retreating!” he quoted from memory. “At Rozvadov we destroyed two enemy divisions. Cavalry General von Brudermann…”
He choked on the general’s name. Not only did he know the names of the generals, but he could also pronounce them correctly. The German ones, anyway. It was only the Hungarian names that gave him some difficulty. Whenever possible, he tried to avoid them. For now, there wasn’t any point in mentioning names. It wasn’t worth enlightening the dark masses. Names and family titles dripping with glamour and rustling like plumes of feathers ought to be conserved for higher purposes. To astonish one’s superiors, to create a favourable impression of oneself in quarters where it might enhance one’s service record.
Piotr had lost the plot again. What should not be sown? Hysteria? What is hysteria? Perhaps some poisonous seed or something like tobacco? Severe punishment was inflicted on those who secretly dealt in tobacco. Piotr did not sow anything or cultivate anything other than beans, cabbages and sunflowers. The sunflowers were actually for Magda. What did he mean about the Muscovites retreating, when our forces are hurriedly retreating from the front line and we are ordered to abandon Topory as quickly as possible? The devil knows where the truth lies. Perhaps it’s as the gendarme says, only Piotr can’t understand it. If he doesn’t know his left from his right, he might not know his front from his rear. The devil, the father of all relativity, is crafty! Once, when Piotr was a child, the evil one led him at dead of night across field after field for something like two hours. Piotr was lost and couldn’t find his way home, while his house was right under his nose, just a hundred paces away. The devil had hidden his cottage underground, in order to lead an innocent soul astray. Who knows, perhaps at this very moment the devil is leading the entire Imperial and Royal Army, which thinks it is advancing whereas in reality it keeps retreating?
The signal bell rang again. Piotr ran out with his little flag and for the last time in his life lowered the level-crossing barrier on the Lwów–Czerniowce–Ickany line. His railway career was over.
Chapter Five
“So nothing is to be held up? Hello! I said—is nothing to be held up?” The stationmaster at Topory-Czernielica was on the telephone to the stationmaster at Śniatyn.
“You say it starts at 12.29 and continues until 14.50? But of course. What with this evacuation, I haven’t picked up a newspaper for several days. Hello! Well, what then? Not to light up in any circumstances? No, I’m not. Such… Hello!… such things have happened before. In ancient times, during the Punic Wars, Scipio Africanus…”
Ancient history buzzed in the earpiece of the Śniatyn stationmaster’s telephone. Between Śniatyn and Topory-Czernielica stations, along the metal cables the exhausted sparrows used to rest on, Hannibal was dashing back and forth at the historic moment of the evacuation of the Topory district. Meanwhile, modern history was announcing itself by the echo of distant artillery fire, the rumbling of the earth and the rattling of windowpanes.
“Yes sir, yes sir, I’ll send a report, sir.”
He hung up and cranked the handle. A ring of the telephone bell indicated that the call was over. Hannibal had disappeared.
The Topory-Czernielica stationmaster was proud of his classical education. He remembered the Punic Wars particularly well, since it was because of these and certain other gory facts that he had been required to retake his secondary school exams. On the first occasion, to the disgust of the entire examination board, he had said that there were five Punic Wars, waged by Philip of Macedonia against Rome. When he retook the examination six months later, he knew exactly what had really happened. Only this time the examiner was not interested in his views on the Punic Wars. On receiving more or less correct answers on the topic of Julius Caesar’s campaigns, and hearing a tolerable translation of a passage from Ab urbe condita, he confirmed that the candidate had passed. The stationmaster remembered the Punic Wars till the end of his life. He admired the ancient Romans, not so much for their virtue and wisdom as for the fact that, thanks to a perfunctory acquaintance with their history and their writings, he was able to serve just one year in the Imperial and Royal Army, and to gain a commission as a reserve officer. He regarded those with no secondary school certificate as creatures of the lowest order. He never shook hands with them. He made exceptions only for women or members of his own family, in particular his father, who was a coach-builder in Rohatyn district. But he was indifferent towards his father, and there were few situations in which he was keen to appear in his company.
Just four more years separated him from his full pension. His only son, Tadzio, would have passed his secondary school exam by then. They should examine him on the Punic Wars or Caesar’s campaigns! That Tadzio caused him a lot of worries. He hated the ancient Romans, and the ancient Greeks even more, on account of that infernal grammar of theirs. He wanted to become a fitter on the railway. That life’s ambition had to a great extent to do with Topory-Czernielica station. Tadzio was now spending his holidays with his parents. At the moment, he was rummaging among the refuse in the kitchen, searching for glass. He was determined to get a bit of glass. When he found none in the bin, he went over to where a small lamp was hanging on the kitchen wall. He lit it, turning the wick so high that the glass turned black with soot and cracked. Then he extinguished the lamp. He slipped a piece of blackened glass in his pocket. Looking around to see whether anyone was watching, he stole out of the kitchen.
In his father’s office the telephone was ringing.
“Hello, yes, speaking. They arrived this morning. Yes, a provisional cadet. I don’t know anything about that. The railway, right, the railway. Hello. I can’t hear you. Yes. The gendarmerie. I don’t know yet. I’ll probably send my family to Vienna. What’s that you say? Nothing like that. I handed over the cash-box yesterday. Well, what did he say? De gustibus non est… There’s no accounting for taste. Of course. Back in ancient times, you know, they… I beg your pardon, I do beg your pardon; I thought it would be of interest to you.”
He was cut off. The senior official at Kołomyja station did not appreciate the Topory-Czernielica stationmaster’s erudition. Especially at such a time, when the world was collapsing and the Russians were approaching, and the military was taking over the railway.
The stationmaster swallowed this bitter pill in silence.
Without knocking, Provisional Cadet Hopfenzieher entered the office. The stationmaster could not abide anyone entering without knocking. Earlier, in normal times, he used to remark to such people that “you only enter a pigsty without knocking”. (Such people at Topory-Czernielica station mostly had no secondary school certificate.) But these were not normal times, and Provisional Cadet Hopfenzieher not only had no secondary school certificate, but as from today he was actually in charge. The sign on the door that read “Unauthorized entry strictly forbidden” had become an anachronism. Who is an intruder now, and who is one of us?
“Would you care to check the inventory with me?” enquired the intruder.
“Certainly!”
They sat down together at the desk and began to check the inventory sheets.
Their work was interrupted by a timid knock. The stationmaster leapt up in annoyance and opened the door. On the threshold stood Piotr Niewiadomski, cap in hand.
“What do you want? Don’t you know you aren’t allowed to enter without knocking?”
“I did knock, sir.”
Of course he had. But what an ass he was! Couldn’t he see that th
is was nothing to do with him at all; it was about those interlopers who had intruded on the station that morning. They were the “unauthorized” ones who ought to have been forbidden to enter for all time.
All of a sudden, the stationmaster was overcome by compassion for Piotr. After all, this unenlightened Hutsul was one of his own, not “one of them”. In any case, they had spent the last eleven years together. For the first time in those eleven years a faint sense of solidarity with the lowest official in his branch of service stirred within the stationmaster. For the first time the winged wheel on his cap, embroidered in gold thread, felt like the elder brother of the tin wheel on Piotr’s cap. The lustre of the metal wheels dazzled the stationmaster, and the wings fluttered, rustling pathetically. They were no mere emblem now, not just a symbol, but the genius of the railway itself. A glance at the provisional cadet’s collar was sufficient to ascertain what gods he served as a civilian. He was a militarized railwayman.
The lustre of the wheels dimmed and the rustling wings were those of an angel of mourning, mourning a ruined career. There could be no doubt that the war would delay promotion, especially in the case of officials who were obliged to escape with the evacuation. Had it not been for the war, they would have retired with a higher rank, perhaps even achieving gold-collar status. The stationmaster saw Piotr in the same light as his own son Tadzio. The stationmaster was human, even if he did, of course, box your ears.
“Come back later,” he said, benevolently. “You can see I’m busy. I have a little more money for you. Come back in an hour.”
There was regret in those words. The stationmaster was leaving his station. Goodness knows how long for, perhaps for ever. He was attached to it, even if he occasionally cursed it. Wasn’t Piotr Niewiadomski a part of the inventory, just as much as the cupboard where the tickets were kept (the station’s altar), the Morse code apparatus, the signals, the levers, the Wertheimer safe, the scales and the three clocks from the Siemens-Halske works? He was, but the stationmaster would not hand him over to the provisional cadet. He was handing over only inanimate inventory items. Piotr was a living being. And living beings were at the disposal of the Emperor alone.
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