by Pete Ayrton
‘Rather than go there, I’ll desert to the Russians!’ then came in a whisper from Bologa, as he looked straightly at the captain.
‘That’s easily said,’ answered Klapka calmly, as if he had been waiting for these very words from the lieutenant. ‘But if you don’t succeed you know what awaits you! Only the other day I told you the tale of those three. They also spoke as you are doing – even more boldly. And yet, to-day they are probably still in the Forest of the Hanged to terrify others!’
‘I don’t worry about that,’ said Bologa confidently. ‘If I am caught I’ll shoot myself and finish quickly! No matter what happens, I won’t die by the rope, I promise you!’
‘They also promised me that, friend, but circumstances proved stronger than their resolution. That’s why I bid you take care, don’t play with Fate! There are thousands, nay, tens of thousands in your position, and Fate looks after them as she thinks fit.’
Klapka pressed his hand warmly, and the next minute Apostol Bologa found himself alone, rooted to the spot, with eyes staring into vacancy, haunted by apparitions. When he came out of his trance he felt so weak that he threw himself on the bed. On the table, in the improvised candlestick, the light began to flicker quickly, grew less bright, and suddenly went out. The darkness startled Bologa, but his feverish lips whispered bravely:
‘It is impossible! It must not happen!’
LIVIU REBREANU
‘WE’LL SEE WHAT YOU DO THERE…’
from The Forest of the Hanged
translated by A. V. Wise
TOWARDS MIDDAY, whilst Bologa was still asleep, a shrill buzzing at the head of his bed startled him and made him jump to his feet, under the impression that the dug-out was being blown up. The adjutant was roaring into the telephone:
‘Lieutenant Bologa? Hallo! Himself speaking? Oh, is it you, old chap? Colonel’s orders you are to leave immediately and report yourself to his Excellency. His Excellency wishes to see you. Very urgent! Of course, you’ll call on us on your way, for the colonel also wants to speak to you. At the same time I want to congratulate you! You’ve saved the honour of the whole division. The colonel phoned to headquarters right away during the night. The fourth one is on the way, Bologa, bravo!’
An hour later Apostol was in a motor-car, sitting next to a staff captain whom he had met at the command post of the regiment and who had offered to take him to headquarters, as he himself was just due to leave. On the way the captain told him that the destruction of the search-light deserved a special reward – all his comrades, including the colonel, had told him so. Bologa listened thoughtfully and silently. Several times his eyes travelled down to his breast, where the three medals for bravery shone, and he remembered his emotion when the first one had been pinned on. How he had longed for it, and how small he had felt until he had received it! It had seemed to him as if he were the only one who had none, and he had felt unhappy and dishonoured. He had hurled himself where lurked the greatest danger, where death reaped oftenest, without fear, with no other thought in his mind but that medal! And when the colonel had pinned it on his breast in the presence of the troops, his heart had wept tears of joy. Not until then had he thought himself worthy to live.
In the courtyard of the divisional headquarters he met Lieutenant Gross, who, being a sapper, constantly had work to do at headquarters. Gross greeted him with an ironical grimace.
‘Bravo, philosopher! You’ve killed a few more people for a bit of tin.’
‘Listen, Gross,’ answered Bologa, suddenly annoyed, ‘when you cease to carry out orders, then you may make imputations against others! Until then, be a little more modest, please!’
‘I execute orders, it is true,’ said the sapper, still in a bantering tone. ‘I commit or help barbarities, but with nausea, friend! Not with enthusiasm, like others! I do not seek to distinguish myself!’
‘It would be better if you practised what you preached,’ murmured Bologa, looking him straight in the eye. ‘To talk is easy, but…’
‘Well, we’ll see what you’ll do tomorrow or the day after on the Romanian front,’ interrupted Gross with a sour smile. ‘We’ll see what you’ll do there…’
‘I’ll never go there!’ said Bologa with a start and flushing deeply.
Gross was about to say something else, but just then there appeared on the doorstep a smart sergeant, who called importantly:
‘Lieutenant Bologa! Please to come in, his Excellency is expecting you, sir.’
A few seconds later Apostol Bologa was standing stiffly before General Karg, who was short and squat, with an ugly, harsh face, darkened by a bristling moustache and pierced by round eyes whose gaze, darting from under very thick, frowning eyebrows, made one think of two venomous daggers.
The lieutenant’s heart contracted when he saw him rise heavily from the table laden with bundles of paper and maps. The recollection flashed through him that each time he had set eyes on the general he had felt a strange fear, as if he were in face of a merciless enemy or of a terrible and unexpected danger which he could not avoid.
The general, with chin uplifted, held out his hand and said heartily:
‘Well done, Bologa! Your action has been reported to me, and I wished particularly to congratulate you in person. Yes, I wished… absolutely…’
His voice was rasping and penetrating, and he seemed to be scolding even when he joked.
Apostol bowed slightly, pressing the general’s hand. Then he gave him a detailed account, using short, dry, military sentences, of how he had destroyed the search-light. While he was speaking, however, he noticed that the general’s nostrils had hair growing out of them, and he thought that very probably he snored horribly at night; also he remembered that he had not seen him since the execution of the Czech. Karg listened to his account attentively, now and again nodding and darting pleased looks at him. Then, when Bologa had finished, he slapped him amicably on the back, murmuring:
‘I have proposed you for the Gold Medal. You may be sure you will get it. We need soldiers like you, and they deserve all distinctions. Well done, Bologa! I am proud to have the honour of commanding brave officers such as you.’
The general stopped, racking his mind to find one or two more suitable words to say. But he could not think of anything else, and, after a short pause, repeated more mildly:
‘I am proud… very proud…’ and again he stretched out his hand, ready to dismiss him. Then Bologa, completely self-possessed, his voice clear, and looking straight into the general’s grey eyes, said:
‘Excellency, I beg you to give me leave to make a request!’
General Karg, unpleasantly surprised that the lieutenant, especially after he had shown him such marked favour, should dare to speak without being addressed and to ask a favour without first having put his name down at orderly hour in the hierarchical manner required by the regulations, took two steps backward with knitted brow. Nevertheless, wishing to show every indulgence to a good soldier, he answered in a friendly tone:
‘Yes, yes, I am listening. A good soldier… naturally… willingly…’
At that moment Bologa felt clearly that his audacity was vain and useless, and he hesitated. Beads of perspiration broke out on his forehead. To gain time and to regain his composure he coughed and bent his head.
Then, his self-confidence reasserting itself, he fixed his eyes resolutely on the general’s face and said, speaking rapidly and jerkily:
‘Excellency, I know – I have heard – that in a few days’ time our division is leaving here to go somewhere else, to another front…’
‘Quite correct,’ answered the general wonderingly as he saw that Bologa faltered.
‘Then, Excellency,’ continued the lieutenant abruptly, as if the interruption had given him renewed courage, ‘then I would ask you to allow me to stay behind here… Or, if this is not possible, to send me to the Italian front…’
The general stared at him perplexedly and twirled his moustache nervously. Then he sai
d:
‘Very well. Although I am sorry to lose you. An excellent officer, brave… But as you are so keen on this… However, I think that here would be better than in Italy…’
‘I don’t mind going there, Excellency. I was at Doberdò for a few months, and on the whole I should prefer it…’
Bologa’s face was now lit up with joy and hope. He could no longer control his emotion. He sighed deeply with relief.
‘Very well, very well,’ repeated the general thoughtfully. ‘Though I don’t understand why you should not want to come with us. My division has a holy mission in Ardeal! A great mission. Yes! The enemy has stolen our country’s soil. There the Wallachians…’
Suddenly General Karg stopped short as if a ray of light had entered his brain. He again took a few steps backwards and glued his gaze on Bologa, trying to read his innermost thoughts. For several seconds there reigned a grave-like silence in the room, while outside could be heard the grinding of cart wheels and the noisy chirping of the sparrows in a tree under the office window. Apostol unconsciously closed his eyes to protect himself from the general’s scrutiny.
‘You are a Romanian?’ the latter jerked out abruptly, his voice almost hoarse.
‘Yes, Excellency,’ answered the lieutenant quickly.
‘Romanian!’ repeated the general, surprised and irritated, in a tone as if expecting a denial.
‘Romanian!’ repeated Bologa more firmly, drawing himself up and puffing out his chest slightly.
‘Yes, very well, of course…’ stammered Karg presently, suspicious and scrutinizing. ‘Yes, certainly… But then your request surprises me… very much… It would seem to me that you differentiate between the enemies of your country?’
Apostol Bologa met the flashing eyes of the general with a calmness which made him marvel at himself. He felt determined and unshaken, as he always did when violently attacked. Now he wished obstinately to convince the enemy, though he realized very well that his efforts would be fruitless. He found himself talking calmly, without the slightest trace of emotion or hesitation; he might have been arguing with a friendly comrade.
‘Excellency, for twenty-seven months I have fought in such a way that I can look anyone in the face unashamed. I have never shirked my duty. My whole heart and soul was in my work. To-day, however, I find myself in a morally impossible situation.’
The general shuddered as if a sword had been thrust into his breast. His eyes flashed and glinted like steel. He rushed at Bologa with raised and bent arm, ready to knock him down, roaring:
‘What is that? Morally impossible situation? What sort of talk is that? How dare you? I know nothing of such nonsense, which is intended purely and simply to conceal the cowardliness of men without patriotic feelings. I know nothing about it, do you understand? I don’t want to know anything about it!’
Apostol tried to protest, but the general cut him short, purple with fury.
‘I don’t allow you to speak, do you understand? Each word of yours deserves a shot! The thoughts concealed behind your words are criminal! Do you understand? Criminal! Oh… oh…! So that’s what your bravery amounts to? Behold what sort of a person I’ve recommended for the Gold Medal! A fine thing! Gold Medal! Shots – not medals!’
He glared at him with dislike and contempt and then abruptly turned his back on him, smothering an oath between his teeth and tugging at his moustache with his right hand, a small, plump hand, laden with rings, like the hand of a woman.
Bologa remained serene, unmoved, persisting in the idea that he must convince him. The fury of the general did him good and gave him courage. When he thought that the latter had calmed down a little, he said again, in the same clear voice:
‘I asked a favour of your Excellency in the belief that you would kindly try to understand my spiritual state. That is why I have taken the liberty of speaking to you as man to man.’
The general, who had paused by the window, cursing and muttering, turned sharply on the lieutenant and answered with more restraint:
‘I do not listen to such requests, nor do I hold conversation with such people! Do you understand? As it is, I have talked too much with you! You ingrate!’
He did not hold out his hand this time, but looked him up and down with disgust, and then sat down at the table and began turning over some of the papers on it. Bologa saluted and went out quietly, confidently, as if after an intensely pleasant interview. The general stared after him, shook his head, surveyed attentively the closed door, and suddenly, again filled with rage, banged his fist violently on the spread-out map. Just then the adjutant sidled into the office, alarmed and filled with curiosity.
‘Note down Lieutenant Bologa,’ mumbled General Karg, addressing the amazed adjutant. ‘He is dangerous and… It wouldn’t surprise me to hear some fine day that he had deserted to the enemy. What men! What an army!’
The adjutant bowed, put some documents on the table and made haste to disappear on tiptoe, without noise, for fear the general should unload his fury on his own head.
In the middle of the courtyard Apostol Bologa gazed around him as if this were the first time he had been there in his life. The enclosure was large, with a wooden paling on the street side. The new plank door which had been let into it was now open. There were a few carts in a file at the back, near the stables, and the motor-car in which he had come stood there abandoned, its doors gaping. The stone house, roofed with old tiles and as immense as a barracks, was pitted with shrapnel dating from the period when the war had passed over the village and when a shell had actually exploded in the little front garden, tearing from its roots the twin of the tree in which a pair of noisy sparrows were now quarrelling. The sky had cleared and filled the atmosphere with a blue more tender than usual. The sun smiled in the west, yellow and frail as the face of a gay old man, and the light of it kissed the earth like a beneficent dew, diffusing joy and awakening hope everywhere.
Apostol stood a while with his eyes turned towards the sun, drinking in thirstily the smiling light. He felt relieved, as if he had just eased by a spell of passionate weeping a long-standing ache. His thoughts no longer oppressed him but bent docilely to his will, and had he wished he could have strung them nicely, like glass beads, on a thread.
He left the courtyard. In the street, opposite the mess-room, he saw a lorry loaded with equipment, ready to leave for the front. He jumped on. He wanted to get back as soon as possible to his battery. He was in a hurry…
Born in 1885 in Tarlisue, Transylvania, then part of Austro-Hungary, Liviu Rebreanu lived from 1909 in Bucharest. During the war, he was a reporter for the Romanian left-wing daily Adevarul. In 1920, he published Ion, a book about the harsh lives of the peasants of Transylvania before the war, which is the first great Romanian novel. The Forest of the Hanged was published in 1922. Based on the life of Rebreanu’s brother Emil, it tells the story of Apostol Bologa, the son of a Romanian lawyer who becomes a decorated officer and in a court-martial even votes in favour of the death sentence for a Czech officer who has deserted. Sent to fight against his countrymen in the Carpathians, Apostol walks towards the Romanian lines. Caught and tried for desertion, he, like the Czech officer he helped condemn, is hung. Surreal and bitter, The Forest of the Hanged forcefully conveys what the war was like for the many ethnic minority members conscripted to fight against their fellow countrymen. Rebreanu died in Valea Mare, Romania, in 1944.
JAROSLAV HAŠEK
ŠVEJK GOES TO THE WAR
from The Good Soldier Švejk
translated by Cecil Parrott
AT THE TIME WHEN THE FORESTS on the river Raab in Galicia saw the Austrian armies fleeing across the river and when down in Serbia one after the other of the Austrian divisions were taken with their pants down and got the walloping they had long deserved, the Austrian Ministry of War suddenly remembered Švejk. Why, even he might help to get the Monarchy out of the mess.
When they brought Švejk the order to report within a week for a medical examina
tion on Střelecký Ostrov, he happened to be lying in bed, stricken once more by rheumatism.
Mrs Muller was making coffee for him in the kitchen.
‘Mrs Muller,’ Švejk called softly from his room, ‘Mrs Muller, come here for a moment.’
When the charwoman stood by his bed, Švejk repeated in the same soft voice: ‘Sit down, Mrs Muller.’
There was something mysterious and solemn in his voice.
When she had sat down, Švejk drew himself up in bed and announced: ‘I’m going to the war!’
‘Holy Mother!’ shrieked Mrs Muller. ‘What ever are you going to do there?’
‘Fight,’ answered Švejk in sepulchral tones. ‘Things are going very badly for Austria. Up above they’re already creeping on us at Cracow and down below on Hungary. They’re crushing us like a steam-roller on all sides and that’s why they’re calling me up. I read you yesterday from the newspaper, didn’t I, that dark clouds were enveloping our dear fatherland.’
‘But you can’t move.’
‘That doesn’t matter, Mrs Muller, I shall go to the war in a bathchair. You know that confectioner round the corner? Well, he has just the right kind of bathchair. Years ago he used to push his lame and wicked old grandfather about in it in the fresh air. Mrs Muller, you’re going to push me to the war in that bathchair.’
Mrs Muller burst into tears: ‘Oh dear, sir, shouldn’t I run for the doctor?’
‘You’ll not run anywhere, Mrs Muller. Except for my legs I’m completely sound cannon-fodder, and at a time when things are going badly for Austria every cripple must be at his post. Just go on making the coffee.’
And while Mrs Muller, tear-stained and distraught, poured coffee through the strainer, the good soldier Švejk started singing in bed:
‘General Windischgrätz as the cock did crow
Unfurled his banner and charged the foe.
Rataplan, rataplan, rataplan.
Charged the foe and brandished his sword