Piotr Niewiadomski received a Mannlicher and bayonet no. 46 821. He knew his numbers, but such a long number, engraved on the flintlock and on the hilt of the bayonet, was not easy to make out. As for memorizing it, that was out of the question. Piotr had not yet had to deal with such large numbers. His salary on the railway was 15 crowns, the signal box where he worked as substitute signalman bore the number 86. And now all of a sudden forty-six thousand eight hundred and twenty-one. Such a powerful number associated with his person filled him with pride and he felt more important than before, but at the same time he realized that from that moment he was no more than an additional property of the number 46 821. This weapon was not new. Many others must have made use of the number 46 821 before Piotr. God knows if they are still alive. And if God permits you to come back from the war with a healthy weapon, you have to give it back to the armoury; let it rest, let it have a good sleep—until the next war. Yes, Piotr himself felt that the weapon was more important than he was. Wagons were also more important; they too had big numbers written on them.
“How many dead bodies can all these weapons cause?” he asked himself, looking at the hundreds of rifles in the hands of the recruits. Five thousand? Ten? He was reminded of the Hutsul legend of self-firing rifles and of weapons inside which the ghosts of those who had been shot would hide. And suddenly ghosts began to circle round beneath the vaulted ceiling of the murky brewery cellar. Silently they swooped down, catching hold of arms and snatching at legs. Phantoms emerged from the darkness, arms pulled elongated grains of lead out from torn breasts, bellies and foreheads, pleadingly offering them to Piotr. Piotr was terrified, thinking that the Hungarian brewers Farkas and Gjörmeky were not brewers but devils, and that it was not beer that they stored here, bitter beer made from hops and barley, but blood.
Piotr expected that when they issued the rifles they would give them ammunition as well. Obviously, he had never served in the army. Who would give recruits live cartridges? And not only recruits! In this armoury there was no ammunition anyway. There are no barracks where firearms are held alongside their little leaden souls. This cruel separation would not end until they were at the front.
Laden like a mule, Piotr returned to his hut. “Piotr, Piotr, what will you look like now? Your own mother will not recognize you! Wasylina Niewiadomska!”
Under the supervision of the NCOs, they began changing into their uniforms. When they took off their civilian clothes, there was a moment similar to that separating night and daybreak. Day is not yet day but night is no longer night. So it was with the men; they were no longer civilians, but not yet soldiers either. The human being passed from one form to another, like a caterpillar turning into a butterfly. Some regretted parting with civilian life, but many cast it off gladly. They all had to pack up their belongings and attach tickets with names and addresses and take them to a warehouse for safekeeping. Those who believed in God felt the bitter truth that he alone knew how many of them would reclaim their bundles. Piotr Niewiadomski believed in God but he could not write. He asked a comrade to do it, but first he retrieved the key to the cottage from his trouser pocket, and together with his money and a dried plum transferred it to his army pouch. He did not miss his civilian clothes. He was sorry about his railway cap, but as for the soldier’s cap, that was the Emperor’s as well. Maybe even more so.
They were also issued with state underwear, but those who wanted to could wear their own underneath the state issue. Waistcoats were not confiscated. The military did not stick its nose into what is beneath the uniform. As long as everything looked uniform on the surface.
The draft of peasants, shepherds, miners and traders was soon converted into soldiers. The glaring differences that had divided the men until now were gone. Hutsuls were no longer Hutsuls, Jews were not Jews. Old men looked a little younger in the Imperial disguise, moving like teddy bears in billowing pantaloons or like village lads in their fathers’ short kaftans. A major change also came about in their souls. They were no longer the same people. Suddenly they became childish and they began to pay attention to trivialities like buttons and straps. The NCOs now began explaining to them the purpose of each strap and each flap. For everything on the soldier, every part of his accoutrement, has a serious purpose; no button is superfluous, every centimetre is part of a careful design. One thing connects to another—the knapsack covered with furry calf hide to the cartridge pouches, the cartridge pouches to the bandolier.
Only now did Regimental Sergeant-Major Bachmatiuk take cognizance of them. Only now that they were all wearing the same uniform was he struck by their memorable individual features. He made careful mental notes of their faces and bodies, which from now on he would be permitted to mock openly. The defects or unwitting physical absurdities of his fellow men would no longer be tolerated. He saw Piotr too, whom he had not noticed before even when he was wearing his railwayman’s cap. He looked him up and down with undisguised contempt. He despised the new cohort, even though they were now in uniform. And suddenly they were all gripped by fear. Until then, fear had been something external; now it settled within them. It penetrated into their bodies from the coarse fibres of the uniforms. They all felt that this fragrant apparel smelling of malt consigned them to death. A miracle had occurred; this undrilled crowd had been overtaken by Discipline. It crept into their bones, mingling with the marrow and stiffening their movements. It even altered their voices.
Until late at night in the barracks the NCOs taught them how to walk properly, how to fold their coats and make their beds. They were taught new manners. To the question: “Who are you?” recruits were to reply: “Reserve militia infantryman so and so, of such and such a company, of the 10th Regiment of King N…” Such was their initiation.
Was the man who fell asleep that night on a bunk between the count’s butler Bryczyński and the Styrian miner Guglhupf still Piotr Niewiadomski? No, he was no longer our old friend from Topory-Czernielica station; he was no longer Piotr Niewiadomski, son of Wasylina, brother of Paraszka the girl of easy virtue; he was simply reserve militia infantryman Piotr Niewiadomski. This was something very different.
* * *
Next day they were all summoned by a bugle call to the square outside the barracks command post and drawn up in line forming three companies, each consisting of four platoons. Piotr Niewiadomski found himself in the first platoon of the second company. Fourth on the right. He made a good impression in his uniform. They waited for the arrival of the lieutenant-colonel, who had announced his intention to be present at the swearing-in ceremony, because the Emperor wanted to make sure once again that they would be faithful until death on land, on water and in the air. They had to wait a long time for the lieutenant-colonel. This day, as every day, it was sunny, and it looked as though it would be very hot. It seemed that the war had concluded some secret pact with this heat-wave and that it would be over once it started to rain. Despite the heat, the men in the ranks held up well. They were allowed to talk. Two soldiers in white linen tunics were painting some gigantic red letters on the outer walls of the huts.
Something important must have detained the lieutenant-colonel in town, as it was past nine o’clock and he had still not arrived. The officers took refuge from the heat in their mess. Captain Slavíček stood in the gateway, chain-smoking. Bachmatiuk alone stayed with the ranks. He kept his eyes on the rows of boots. He was worried that the long, straight lines might become distorted. It had been such a hard job to get them into this condition that morning! It was also important to him that the boots of the recruits should be faultlessly polished. When they entered the square at eight o’clock, all the boots shone like glass. Now, after the long wait on dry sand, they were all dusty. There would be no point in giving an order to repolish them. The laboriously assembled ranks would fall into complete disarray. Bachmatiuk was upset about the boots, all the more so because the men were not to blame for their appearance. It was after ten o�
�clock and the lieutenant-colonel had not turned up. The ranks were beginning to break up.
Bachmatiuk went all round them and with the help of the corporals he kept re-dressing the ranks. In vain. In his view, many of these foot soldiers were better suited to the cavalry, with their short, crooked legs. Bachmatiuk could not stand the cavalry. He could not stand the cavalry, he could not stand the artillery, he could not stand sappers, pioneers, the service corps, the medics, men or women, even if they were in uniform. He hated officers and one-year servicemen, because they were recruited from the upper classes, he could not bear privates because they were people of his own sort. But it would be wrong to think that he was capable only of hate. He could also love. And how! Like a passionate lover in the prime of life, and like an older man lusting after an under-aged girl. He hated each soldier individually for his mouth, for his soul, it is true, but he loved the symmetrical lines created by his body, uniform and shoes. He worshipped ranks, double files, columns of four—either stationary or on the move. He loved quadrangles and phalanxes. Any irregularity, any breach in the formation caused him physical pain. He considered standing to attention to be mankind’s fundamental state, the attitudinal norm. Everything else was aberrant. For him, the value of humanity was measured by the extent to which it was formed into regiments. Was he capable of real love? He loved the dust kicked up by the impact of rhythmically tramping feet; this was the music of the spheres, and he regretted the fact that men do not have more feet with which to tramp in time with the beat. He loved the clash of weapons, and sacred military silence: that most exalted of all silences played for him an echo of eternity. His nostrils greedily drank the scent of a soldier’s sweat. He watched himself reflected in the shining boots of the infantry as in the mirror of truth. The only, absolute truth.
The boots of the recruits were covered in ever-deepening layers of dust. The sun began to undermine the already fragile square formation; scorched by its rays, the ranks began to droop like melting candles. Before long they would begin to melt. The corporals continued to redress the ranks, fastening buttons, raising the heads of the recruits, lifting drooping belts, pushing the protruding bellies in with their fists. They bustled around these old men like anxious mothers preparing their daughters for their first ball. If the commanding officer did not arrive now, everything would fall apart, the whole painstakingly constructed building would fall into ruin.
He arrived at last, looking morose and deeply perturbed.
When a superior officer approaches drawn-up ranks, they are required to acknowledge him in response to the command “Eyes—right!” Neither Captain Slavíček, the newly appointed battalion commander, nor Bachmatiuk, did so. Quite rightly. It would have been ridiculous to produce a collective nod when the men had no idea how to do it. A sufficient mockery had already been made of the recruits. All the lowest-ranking barracks staff, including the shoe-shiners and the malingerers, had taken to the square, eager for fun at the expense of others. Hawryło, Michajło and Rafajło kept his distance by the huts, grinning. He felt safe at some distance from the RSM.
Lieutenant-Colonel Leithuber did not even accept the report. With his left hand, he signalled to Bachmatiuk that he did not require it. Wrapped in his cape, he looked more like the leader of a gang of conspirators than the head of a military formation. He went upstairs to his office and did not re-emerge for a long time. He was reliving, this time alone, the alarming news. All the daily newspapers had screamed in bold headlines: LEMBERG STILL IN OUR HANDS… Everyone knew what that meant. In a day or two, perhaps even now, the splendid city of Lwów, the capital of the largest of the Crown Lands, the jewel of the Habsburg crown, the headquarters of the 11th Corps, an enormous garrison, the dream of all officers stationed in smaller Galician towns, Little Vienna, would be occupied by the Russians. All the barracks, the Citadel, the High Castle, the Kortumówka rifle range would be occupied by the Russians. All the cafés, the Corso and the Colosseum! Leithuber could already see the terraces of Lwów cafés full of Russian officers. Still in our hands! What sort of hands were those of generals who could not keep hold of Lwów? Perhaps the generals’ hands were also withered.
He hurried down to where his numerous retinue awaited him below, Adjutant Baron Hammerling, Captain Slavíček, three company commanders and the ensigns. Leithuber took no notice of the retinue or the squad of recruits. He was looking at the barracks and the painters.
“Pachmatiuk,” he shouted angrily, “Whose idea is this? How can you paint generals’ names in red? I suppose you’ll order the recruits to sing socialist songs next?”
Yes, they were the names of those thanks to whom Lwów was still in our hands. But the command had come down from Military Headquarters to immortalize those names on the walls of the lodgings so that people could commit them to memory more easily, and they had no choice but to obey. (Although the Military Headquarters ought to have been aware that most of the men in this regiment were illiterate.)
Bachmatiuk did not feel guilty. The commanding officer had given no instructions regarding colour. Bachmatiuk had chosen red because it stood out. Immediately he ran over to the painters and told them to use white paint. Leithuber was impatient. “Get on with it,” he yelled at Bachmatiuk as he was returning. He did not like those sheds.
When a squad of soldiers had to take an oath, the command was “Take the oath!” Our people, though they were now in uniform, were not yet a real unit of soldiers. They were ordered, as civilians, to remove their caps and raise two fingers of the right hand to eye level. Bachmatiuk pronounced the oath in three languages. Choirs began, in the name of God Almighty, taking a vow of faithfulness and obedience to His Imperial Majesty and all his generals. All of them, including, therefore, those whose hands could not keep hold of Lwów. Piotr Niewiadomski thought that at such a solemn moment music should be playing. He did not know that the orchestra was with the regiment at the front. So he had to settle for the music that was playing in his soul. And very beautiful it was too.
In a voice that got lost in the collective elation, for the second time in his life Piotr assured the Emperor that he would “never under any circumstances desert his fellow soldiers, flags or banners”. Until that moment, Lieutenant-Colonel Leithuber had not been listening to these assurances. In his mind, he was going over the speech he was to deliver to the recruits in Ukrainian. He was quite fluent in that language, but he was wracked with nervousness at the prospect. The awareness of being nervous was humiliating, all the more so because he was to address people of a standing so much lower than his own. He was suddenly struck by the word “banners”. It would spoil his fine oratorical moment. High above in the blazing blue sky loomed the yellow standard edged in black and red. With the double-headed eagle in the centre. In Leithuber’s soul, a vision of the regimental flag fluttered noisily. “Where is it now? How many bullets have pierced it? Perhaps it has been captured, soon to be flying over the St Petersburg arsenal?” In his youth Leithuber had read of heroic standard-bearers who died on the battlefield, refusing to let go of their bullet-riddled banner… Would Ensign Stiasny, regimental standard-bearer, be able to achieve something like that? Ensign Stiasny was regarded as a great skirt-chaser. But the one does not exclude the other. On the contrary… When the regiment was being moved from Stanisławów, Leithuber personally brought with him the standard’s empty oilcloth case. It rests in a cupboard in his office… “…and thus we will with honour live and die,” chanted the choir.
Before the banner disappeared into thin air, the lieutenant-colonel saw Ensign Stiasny’s hand clinging tightly to the staff. A moment later, it also disappeared into the sky, as if together with the regimental standard it had been granted the grace of ascension. There remained only the honour with which these people “wanted to live and die”. He had to tell them something about honour. Leithuber winced. His throat was burning with nervousness. The men lowered their hands and replaced their caps. The smell of spicy so
up, becoming ever stronger, told them eleven o’clock was approaching. For a split second, Piotr Niewiadomski again saw the face of his mother. Ah, those groats, barley and millet!… Lieutenant-Colonel Leithuber took a few steps forwards, looking for a spot from where he would seem taller. But the square was as flat as a pancake, so he moved back onto the steps and cleared his throat.
“Soldiers!” he began in a gentle, fatherly tone.
Piotr was reminded of Father Makarucha’s sermons. He too used to begin in this soppy manner: “My brothers.”
“You have been given your uniforms.” Leithuber raised his voice, reaching the heights of raw pathos. “You have been given your uniforms, in which you will go to war…”
At this point his voice suddenly broke, falling to the ground like a wounded bird. Leithuber was not telling the truth. He knew perfectly well that they would not go to war in these uniforms. Before leaving for the front they would be issued with new uniforms. It was of no matter. Again he raised his voice:
“To fight for the Emperor and the homeland…”
Nervousness began to choke him like a big Czech dumpling. Nervousness, and something worse than that. It would be best to finish now. Who was he, to tell these people anything about fighting? Already an invalid in peacetime, he would never see any fighting! When war broke out, Leithuber had volunteered for active service. Not because he loved war (although he longed for it in time of peace, like any professional officer). He did not love war, but he wanted to escape the circle of eternal pretence; he had had enough of continuous fruitless preparation for something that was never going to happen. He had spent years preparing for situations that would never occur; it was unbearable. And when war finally did break out, carrying everyone before it in its vehemence, was he to continue firing blanks at non-existent enemies? Throughout his army career he had been continually firing into a void. He had volunteered for front-line service because he wanted to see real war at last.
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