All at the barracks understood this. But the regimental sergeant-major was sometimes troubled by doubt, though he realized that he was indispensable to the barracks. He was often haunted by the call to battle which is the lot of a soldier in wartime. A soldier who has not experienced battle is like a woman withering in virginity. Why should he be the only one to wither in the barracks, in the Farkas and Gjörmeky brewery, while thousands of less worthy men were undergoing the baptism of fire for which he himself had prepared them? Bachmatiuk was tempted by martyrdom, although he was a martyr in the barracks too, a martyr to duty, to discipline and to perfection. Perfection! Can anyone achieve it who has not tasted all the events described in D.2 (Service in the Field)? Is it possible to achieve perfection in the way of duty without even once having been exposed to “unnatural death by the fault of another” (case no. 6)?
Today, like a gentle reminder of the deity, like a call from the netherworld, the peace medals chimed on Bachmatiuk’s breast. It seemed to him that by comparison with the sound of gallantry medals they all had the ring of counterfeit coins.
At that moment he felt very old. He felt the weight of his whole life on his shoulders, bearing him down. It lasted only a second, but that second encapsulated dozens of years spent on the barracks square. Immediately Bachmatiuk called himself to order with the basic command to himself: “Attention!” He stood bolt upright, fastened the buttons on his tunic, one by one, pulled it straight and adjusted it. He sighed like an old man no longer battling against time and not dyeing his moustache. Simultaneously, he gestured with his hand as though waving temptation aside.
He donned his cap, stiffened his posture, glanced in the mirror, tweaked his moustache a little and went out, banging the door after him. In the long, dark corridor he never met anyone except the two shoe-shiners. The officers were still asleep, but the sergeants were already down below. Bachmatiuk descended the steps with the heavy, uneven tread of an old civilian. To start with, he even leant on the hand-rail.
There were already large numbers of people gathered on the first floor. A large group of civilians was waiting outside the sick-bay waiting to be examined. In the charge of the duty corporal, a dozen or so soldiers without cartridge belts or bayonets were standing around. These were men from the battalion who had reported sick. At the sight of the regimental sergeant-major the men reporting sick quickly stepped aside to make way for him. Bachmatiuk had rejuvenated his gait, putting a spring into his step. His eyes, which had been somewhat dull up on the second floor, now took on a cold glint. Signs of weariness in his face disappeared as the tension in his facial muscles smoothed out the wrinkles.
The appearance of the regimental sergeant-major had a healing effect on the men reporting sick. A blush came over the faces of the sufferers. But the malingerers turned pale. The mere sight of Bachmatiuk banished their hypochondria. He looked at no one and spoke to no one, scarcely acknowledging the salutes. Lieutenant Baron Hammerling, adjutant to the garrison commander, suddenly hastened by. As they saluted one another simultaneously, the Baron smiled. Bachmatiuk respectfully let him pass, but did not return the smile. He now proceeded down the steps in such a dignified and commanding manner as if he were marching at the head of an entire company. But there was not a single soldier following him; he was alone on the steps. At the moment he emerged through the gateway and stood in the full light of the sun he might almost have been a young man. Perhaps this is an exaggeration, but Regimental Sergeant-Major Bachmatiuk down there on duty was certainly a different man from the Bachmatiuk at home upstairs.
Chapter Ten
For a long time now, Piotr Niewiadomski had been unable to fathom how it could be that his regiment, the Imperial and Royal regiment, the Austro-Hungarian regiment, which swore allegiance to His Majesty Franz Joseph, belonged to a Balkan king. After all, was that king not at war with His Imperial Majesty? If that is so, why is the regiment not fighting on the side of its owner?
Piotr Niewiadomski was also an owner. He had half of a house, half of an orchard and a dog. A fine thing it would be if Bass bit him, Piotr, instead of attacking strangers and enemies! Unless he had rabies! This whole matter smacked powerfully of the devil. Another of the many mysterious tricks that he played on people in this war. Who knows, he might tell them to shoot themselves instead of shooting Serbs and Muscovites. Clever people like Hryć Łotocki or Semen Baran would probably have managed to unravel this mystery. But Hryć Łotocki had stayed behind in Topory, and Semen Baran had gone to Styria. And so, left to his own devices, Piotr Niewiadomski once again became caught up in a snare left by the devil. Everywhere the devil sowed fear and it was futile to take flight; the efforts of a poor soul expelled to Hungary were in vain. Fortunately, this war cared more for bodies than for souls. It prepared them for its own needs, changing their appearance to suit its requirements.
Since early morning, scissors had been chattering. Those with beards had to lay them on the altar of the homeland. Thanks to the resourcefulness of hospital orderly Lance Corporal Glück, that altar had been erected in one of the brewery sheds. Only the most pious Jews were permitted by the Emperor to retain a small Spanish goatee. Side-locks were mercilessly removed! The Chasidim were seeing themselves in a mirror for the first time in their lives. Lance Corporal Glück (a barber in civilian life) had bought it with his own money. Now he was cutting hair and shaving officially, so he was unpaid. Some orthodox Jews, horrified, closed their eyes so as not to see their reflection. To see your own face was a great sin, because God created it in his image and likeness.
Under the scissors, gloomy, enigmatic Asia disappeared; tragic antiquity perished, and the first outlines of Europe emerged on the pallid faces, revealed for the first time in many years, as if dredged up from the sea bed. But it was not only the Jews who had their hair cut; it was Christians as well. It fell from their heads, from their chins and from their faces onto their shoulders, their backs, onto the floor, into the dust, dark and fair, straight and curly, Catholic and Jewish all mixed together, though it is written, clearly written, that except by the will of God not one hair of your head shall fall.
Piotr Niewiadomski sat on a stool, stiff and solemn as a bishop. The clippers no. 0 travelled up and down, backwards and forwards across his head like a harvesting machine over a field of wheat. That was the first harvest of the war, from his own scalp. He was not sitting in front of the mirror and he did not see the devastation done to his head. But he was highly amused by the heads of his colleagues. Half of the head looked like a kneecap, while the other half was like a haystack. It was reminiscent of the sheep-shearing back home. But what did the Emperor want with all this human hair? Was it for stuffing mattresses, perhaps?
After they had had their haircuts, they were ordered to go to the barracks to stuff mattresses. No, not with their own hair but with fresh Hungarian straw. Piotr had been allocated a place to sleep on a bunk-bed in barracks hut no. 4. The day before, they had been issued with straw-filled pillows. Piotr deposited his trunk, all his possessions, on the bed. This was where he would be sleeping now, from lights-out till reveille. Until they got their marching orders to proceed to the front, this is where he would be spending the nights, between two companions. They were separated by a narrow gap of just a few inches. In fact, it was a matter of kilometres or miles, because on the left he had been given some Pole as a neighbour, a count’s butler, and on the right a Styrian, a Kraut.
The sweat standing out on his brow, Piotr stuffed his mattress with dry, rustling straw, the leftovers from the Hungarian harvest. He looked kindly on this Hungarian straw. It would soothe all the injustices done to him during the day, absorbing the sweat of his brow and the anxiety in his soul. Perhaps they would be living in the barracks for just a short time. Perhaps the war would really be over in a few days’ time, and not last till Christmas? Why would it not end, since Austria had already defeated Russia at Kraśnik? Piotr was weighing up the odds like a car
d-player. Once you win a game, collect your money and get off home! No need to tempt fate! The second time round you can lose everything! What a surprise that will be for Magda! Bass will jump for joy! Piotr reached into his pocket and felt the cold iron. It was still there; he hadn’t lost it. He had not lost the key to his house, the key to their hopes.
He stuffed away, not grudging his pallet any straw. He wanted the mattress to be nice and firm. In any case, it would settle down later.
Suddenly Bachmatiuk appeared. Piotr had already got used to his appearance. The terror of the barracks had so far not made any great impression on him. A burly character, clearly, and morose, but then not so strict. He ignored the civilians. Actually, Bachmatiuk found them somehow repellent. He was ill at ease in their presence. He did not look at them. Could it be that civilian dress intimidated him so much? He would chat only to people in uniform.
“What am I known for?”
Corporal Reszytyło, in charge of a group of recruits, kept silent.
“I said, what am I known for?”
“It is known that you are not to be taken lightly, Regimental Sergeant-Major, sir.”
“Why did you permit smoking near the straw, Reszytyło, against my orders?”
“I did not see it, Regimental Sergeant-Major, sir.”
“What are your eyes for, Corporal?”
Without waiting for an answer, he disappeared. Corporal Reszytyło flew into a rage, insulting the mothers of the recruits and stubbornly repeating his question—who was smoking? He got no response. The silence among the crowd of strangers infuriated him still more. The crowd had the advantage over him. Again he insulted their mothers. It was no use. Breathing heavily, silent as the grave, they packed the straw into the mattresses in the ever more intense heat.
“You’ll pay for this! You’ll pay for every day I’m detained in the stinking cells because of you sodding recruits. You can be sure of that!”
The “sodding recruits”, covered in sweat and caked with dirt and straw, were afraid. As though it was a form of defence against the repayment Corporal Reszytyło had promised them, they hid behind the huge pallets. They lifted them onto their freshly shaved heads and onto their backs and scurried, cowering, into the huts. Piotr Niewiadomski was beginning to understand the threat posed by Bachmatiuk. He did not personally shout or swear himself, or do anyone any harm. But he aroused anger in his subordinates.
So the Hutsuls assigned to barracks hut no. 4, along with a few Styrians, recognized in Acting Corporal Ivan Reszytyło their first enemy in this war.
Before he can wear a uniform, a man has to take a bath to purify his body, as must a bride before she receives the bridegroom. Led by Corporal Reszytyło, they proceeded to the baths, which were set up in a special hut attached to the kitchen block. Space was restricted, so they entered in groups, while the rest waited outside. Suffocating clouds of steam billowed from the open doors as from the boiler of an invisible locomotive. Wild laughter, shrieks and hoots were heard. Strange things were going on in the bath-house. From time to time all other sounds were lost among the mighty roar of the waterfall. When Piotr Niewiadomski went in, at first he could see nothing. A heavy damp mist filled the room, which was already quite dark. Only after the noise ceased, the mist dispersed and Piotr Niewiadomski saw a crowd of wet, naked bodies. They were panting and snorting and leaping about on the wet boards, slapping their backsides to shake off the water.
Piotr had never been in a bath-house before. He could only imagine bathing in a river. He had also heard that gentlemen in big houses in towns would wash in their own baths. Here there was no bath, just boards underfoot, or perhaps they were ladders. Rusty iron pipes above your head. That was all. But where was the water? Some older man in a white coat such as a doctor would wear, with a trimmed grey beard, was in charge here. Perhaps he was a doctor? Corporal Reszytyło issued the order to undress and step onto the boards. Piotr undressed, untroubled by any sense of embarrassment. His embarrassment gradually got lost in the army. Piotr was very curious about these Imperial baths. But he did not know what to do—should he lie down on the boards or sit on them?
“Come on! Get under the water! Don’t be afraid!” squawked the white-coated man in a wheezy voice. “Into the mikveh! Into the mikveh!” he laughingly taunted the Jews.
He was no doctor or even an NCO, just an unarmed category “C” private. He was distinguished from other reserve militia privates by a thin yellow stripe on his sleeves, the so-called “intelligence stripe” or “toilet badge”, guaranteeing exemption from certain tasks such as cleaning the toilets. This Imperial and Royal badge was given to older reserve militia men without a secondary school certificate, but who followed a civilian profession requiring “intelligence”. This distinction was accorded especially to owners of larger enterprises, industrialists, merchants and landowners. The man in the white coat was called Izydor Parawan. He fulfilled light duties in the barracks and he enjoyed considerable privileges. He was the owner of one of the most popular venues in Stanisławów. Many officers of the regiment were among its regular customers. His “light” duties, in addition to those of bath attendant, involved assisting in the sick-bay during the weekly sanitary inspections known as “dick parades”.
“Move along! Move along! Don’t be shy of the water!” he shouted to the peasants and Jews, finding their hesitation amusing.
“Now, young ladies! Susannas in the bath! No one is peeping at you, you don’t have to hide your charms! Fine flesh, fine flesh, healthy cannon-fodder! All steaks for the Russian artillery! I’ll prepare you a Diana’s bath in no time.”
And he vanished behind a wooden partition like an executioner preparing the electric chair. Piotr found him extremely disconcerting. He felt sure he was the devil in a white coat. That grey beard, his incomprehensible yelling, his horrible laugh… hopefully he wouldn’t drown them!
Suddenly, warm rain gushed from the wooden ceiling. Streaming from imperceptible holes in the pipes, thin but sharp jets of water sprayed heads and bodies like so many whips. The men cringed in terror beneath the sluices. Some even lay on the boards, convinced that the water from the pipes would fill the whole room and that they would be swimming in it. Their fear soon gave way to laughter. The bath was not at all bad; it was very pleasant. But suddenly the water changed. From warm it turned to cold. Brr… Only the devil could cast a spell on the water like that in the blink of an eye. And the devil in the white coat emerged from his hiding place, laughing, laughing away through his jagged teeth, rubbing his hands and shrieking loudly, trying to make himself heard above the noise:
“Well? Nice bath? Not a single louse left on you! Word of honour! Fine flesh! Dry yourselves and get dressed! Next lot!”
You couldn’t tell whether he was joking or whether he was angry. He was the devil, wasn’t he?
This way, the men’s bodies were cleansed, and not only of bodily uncleanliness. Beneath the artificial rain, all the impurity of their former civilian life was removed from these people. The bath restored lost innocence to bodies and souls. But their feet kneaded the thick mud. The black pastry of the devil.
Although he had been given a haircut and a bath, Piotr Niewiadomski still hoped he would not be going to war, because they seemed to be in no hurry with the uniforms. That same morning they had received their first pay. For ten days. In addition, each man received six crowns for the purchase of necessary supplies—thread, soap, brushes, boot polish, flax and grease for their weapons. Regimental Sergeant-Major Bachmatiuk was present at the pay-out by barracks hut no. 1. He sat at the table with the NCO paymaster and another NCO. He was checking the payroll. One of the NCOs called out the names. Another’s deft fingers felt in the little canvas bags and arranged the coins in piles, occasionally reaching into a green wire basket for the paper money. It was hard to work out why he gave one soldier the amount he was due straight away, while he gave an
other one a large banknote to be shared among two or three of them. The Hutsuls stepped aside and counted their money out loud, as they would do at market, passing it from hand to hand, making mistakes and arguing. These calculations were not easy.
Here was the Emperor giving himself away, in greater and lesser denominations, to those who were to give their lives for him.
“This is bad!” thought Piotr Niewiadomski, taking the money.
“They’re paying us, so they won’t be letting us go.” The clinking of silver and nickel coins drowned out the last hopes of a speedy return home. Piotr was surprised that the Emperor, whom he considered a good player, was still trying his luck instead of calling it a day after the great victory of Kraśnik.
“What are you waiting for?” snapped the sergeant at the table, when Piotr, instead of moving away, stood there lost in thought.
The sergeant did not know that Piotr Niewiadomski was waiting for the war to end.
Bachmatiuk suddenly leapt to his feet, knocking over a chair, and briskly walked in the direction of the regimental headquarters. He had heard a familiar clatter on the main road. In a cloud of dust, a carriage drawn by two graceful bays was arriving at the main building. Adjutant Baron Hammerling dashed out through the gateway, but Bachmatiuk beat him to it. Saluting almost simultaneously, they stood before the carriage, from which an impressive-looking, well-built officer was just stepping out in a tall peaked cap. Despite the heat, he wore a long black cape, picturesquely folded. It covered his arms. He quickly freed one arm from under the cloak—the left, and returned the salute. The adjutant wanted to help him down.
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