The Fantastical Adventures of Leutenlieb of the House of Munchausen

by Shlomo Kalo

  "It’s a fact!" the doctor asserted with the kind of scholarly insistence that does not leave even an empty space behind – "The snake is moving around and biting and depositing its poison, even though in minute quantities, at the moment!"

  I had neither the inclination nor the time to engage in an erudite and highly enjoyable academic debate with my comrade in arms. Instead of this I pointed out to him there were more bite victims being treated by another doctor, and he would do well to follow their progress and check the efficacy of their treatment. The distinguished professional hurried away at once to comply with my suggestion.

  The commander of that platoon, Captain Millerknecht, came to me and suggested that the "biter" should be removed from the front line and sent to a hospital for the insane, to spend the rest of his life detained in a ward for dangerous patients. His suggestion worried me. Imprisonment for the whole of his life, by way of punishment for a few bites? It seemed excessive. I expressed my vehement opposition. And this was my one and only mistake, a dreadful and fateful one, which I still bemoan day and night – in company with all of mankind.

  The soldier’s name was Adolf Hitler, a lance-corporal, a painter of Austrian origin known by the nickname "the Biter". "Adolf Hitler the Biter". With the passing of time, as is recorded in the gloomier pages of human history, the man exchanged the arms of colleagues for Persian carpets, which he went on biting with great gusto until the last moment of his life.

  The second encounter came about entirely by chance, and was as unlike the foregoing as could be imagined. As I was strolling casually through the camp I came across a young man, a private soldier, sitting at the foot of a large rock, pressed into its shadow, doing everything possible to avoid being seen and – strangely quiet and with limbs contorted – he was weeping.

  I approached him from the shaded side of the rock, pacing slowly and cautiously, and coming close to him, bent down and touched his quivering shoulder.

  I smiled at him, and raising an authoritative and fatherly hand, excusing him from the obligation to stand up, snap to attention, salute and click heels – I asked him to explain his unusual behavior.

  The man wiped away his tears with the sleeve of his tunic and answered me:

  "My friend, my best friend of all, since our school-days and even before that – was killed today. A stray bullet hit him and killed him…"

  I was silent. What could I do?

  Bringing his best friend back to life was beyond even my abilities. If Jesus Christ had been standing there – we could both have turned to him and appealed to him to perform this simple miracle, restoring human life to a body pieced by a lead bullet, and he would surely have responded to our plea and done so, and joy would have been complete – for the young soldier, for Jesus Christ, the raiser of the dead, and for me, sharing the soldier’s pain and understanding his grief.

  "Listen," I said at last, as an idea flashed into my ever resourceful mind, "yours is a sensitive soul, the soul of a born artist. When you return from this Hell, you’ll be ideally placed to perpetuate the memory of your friend by creating a monument that will long outlast the lives of flesh and blood!"

  "I’m not an artist…" the young man told me, although the first signs of regained self-assurance were perceptible in his voice.

  "What do you mean – not an artist?" I pressed him.

  "I’m not a painter, not a sculptor, not a musician…"

  "A poet?"

  "Not exactly…" the young man hesitated.

  "Be a writer then!" I urged him with unflappable confidence – "And that way you can write about your friend and about all the horrors going on here, so that all of humanity will mourn your friend and live your sorrow, and understand your feelings and ours too!"

  "A book?" – more than he was asking me, the young man was asking himself, as he gained still more self-assurance, drawing real encouragement from our conversation.

  "A book!" I confirmed, bringing all my military authority to bear.

  "And what should I call it?" he asked innocently.

  I remembered that in a secret report I was reading the day before, the situation on the Western Front was described in six simple words. These words would indeed serve as an excellent title for a book guaranteed to shake the world to its foundations. Without further hesitation I said:

  "All quiet on the Western Front."

  "I like it!" cried the young man, re-awakened to life, his eyes sparkling through the moisture of his drying tears.

  We shook hands and parted like old friends. The young man’s name: Erich Maria Remarque.

  I heard that after publication of the book, which was indeed an earth-shattering event, he searched for me desperately and failed to find me. He was obviously unable to locate my domicile, as I had done everything in my power to prevent this, true to the ideals of humility and modesty, inculcated in me by my esteemed tutors, to which I firmly adhere at all times.

  And if the truth be told, I was not the one who invented the title of this famous novel, which touched, if only for a limited period, the sensitive heart-strings of the human being, and taught him to look at war from a slightly different angle. All I did was quote from a dry, secret, official report, in the hearing of a young man grieving over the loss of his dear friend, a pointless loss and one with not the slightest shred of any kind of justice.

  WITCHCRAFT

  I had occasion to spend some time in a remote Russian village – Derevnaya it was called, the root of the name being "derevo" – meaning "wood" in Russian, since everything there was made of wood, with the exception of course of the heads of the people and needless to say – their hearts.

  The village was situated on the flank of a hill, and on the summit stood the ancient buildings of a monastery. The monks were regarded by the villagers as insane, since any human being of the female gender was forbidden to set foot in their monastery, and they also imposed on themselves a rigid rule of silence. The only one allowed to speak was the novice charged with the duty of offering hospitality to those who came knocking on the gates – no females of course – and making sure all their needs were catered for, meaning in this case, a cell containing a hard wooden bed, a litre of fresh water from the spring and a loaf of bread baked in the days of Methuselah.

  It was said that on festival days a guest who had survived the experience was offered fresh vegetables, and once a year – goat’s cheese. Naturally these concessions were intended for outsiders only. The monks themselves spent most of their time in prayer, which seemed to be all the nourishment they needed.

  The villagers, most if not all of whom were deeply mired in superstition, feared evil spirits, feared the monks, feared authority, recoiled from strangers, walked about with heads bowed and grim faces, and any movement that was out of place or not to the taste of the one observing it, was interpreted as intimidating, a clear sign of the evil eye. They kept their distance from one another and sometimes fled from their own shadows.

  And it was to this remote place – renowned, incidentally for its wild and virginal beauty, its foaming rivers and blooming fruit-trees – that I was sent with my soldiers to rest and recuperate after the cruel battles on the western front.

  And indeed my men were not slow to exploit to the best of their ability the pastoral calm all around and to improve their image, for the benefit of others and for their own benefit too – they pulled thick and stinking lice out of their clothing, washed their weary bodies twice a day in the river nearby, laundered, sewed, dressed wounds, told one another of their experiences, without anyone paying attention to the words said, and laughing all the time – conclusive proof of how artificial and utterly loathsome is war in the eyes of rational people, and how dear to them are peace, tranquility and happiness. But as we know – the reins of power are held by utter lunatics and they are intent on drowning the human race in an ocean of blood, without themselves wetting so much as a pampered fingertip.

  For a few days everything was orderly. I gave strict
and clear orders to my soldiers not to go down to the village in large groups, and I appointed a team of skilled and shrewd economists, all of them graduates of academic institutions reputed for the teaching of economics, to go down from time to time among the farmers and buy all the provisions required by the regiment at full price. Indeed, I was not acting in the hallowed manner of soldiers, since time immemorial to the present day, who see themselves as entitled and even obliged to rob the rural laborer, in this case, the Russian mujik, with the power of the sharp sword and the assistance of the muzzle of the loaded carbine.

  As was only to be expected, this unconventional behavior aroused suspicion at first in the hearts of the local populace, as well as deep distrust. When the initial shock passed they began looking at us with wonderment, with eyes not yet free from the deep-rooted distrust of the peasant who has learned from bitter experience. But as we paid no attention to their suspicions and went on buying our provisions at reasonable prices – the wall of suspicion was finally breached, to be replaced by good cheer and truly spontaneous laughter, and the peasants began greeting my soldiers with an air of genuine fraternity. A powerful bond of neighborliness – little short of miraculous, I would say – was forged between the two ethnic groups, formerly strangers to one another, which the vagaries of destiny had brought together.

  And it was then that the shameful incident occurred which I am about to describe.

  One of those early mornings, suffused with the glorious tranquility characteristic of this corner of the world, Yefimy came running to me; this was the brigade interpreter, who although Russian by birth had been drafted into our army and proved himself a man of exemplary loyalty and commitment to the objective. He was flushed and panting heavily, obviously shocked by what he had witnessed and aware of its extraordinary seriousness.

  Finally he stood before me, saluted in accordance with our arcane rituals, snapped to attention with his remaining strength and, granted permission to speak, reported breathlessly that the barbarous peasants were at this very moment lighting a big bonfire in the central square of their village on which – no more and no less – they proposed to roast alive a young woman recently widowed, along with her five children.

  When I asked what was the reason for this, the shrewd interpreter replied that the woman had been accused of witchcraft, and of being in league with a gang of black devils.

  I asked what evidence the peasants had – had they seen the black devils with their own eyes? What were these devils doing, and what form had the witchcraft taken?

  Yefimy gave me his answer, still panting and wheezing, although his fatigue had eased and it was now excitement that left him short of breath:

  "The widow has no money to hire laborers to plough the plot of land she inherited from her husband and sow it with seed, and suddenly – the field has been ploughed by itself, and someone has even been seen planting seed on it, corrupted seed no doubt – conclusive proof that there has been devilry afoot here, from beginning to end, and it’s obvious to all that the wretched woman is endangering the well-being of the entire village, and who knows what will grow on that patch of land, seeded in such a fashion…

  "As for the devils," Yefimy went on to tell me – "one of the widow’s neighbors overcame her feelings of dread, driven by the force of curiosity that was even more dreadful, and went out late last night and hid behind a stout old oak tree at the edge of the widow’s plot of land and watched what was happening from there… And what was revealed before her eyes – wide open with fear and curiosity together – Heavens above!" Yefimy exclaimed, excited in spite of the wisdom for which he was renowned among all the soldiers of 522 Brigade (Combined Operations) – "Three black devils began sowing seed on that patch of land, digging their hands into the bulging haversack hanging beside them, taking handfuls of seed and scattering it, just as human beings would do! And yet… these were not human beings!

  "This evidence is enough to convict the widow and the village council has met to discuss the matter, and has unanimously passed sentence on the unfortunate woman – death by burning, the fate of witches since time immemorial!"

  I hurriedly put on my freshly laundered and ironed full-dress uniform, resplendent with gleaming gold buttons, buckled on my sword, leapt like a natural cavalryman onto the back of my splendid horse – an Arab thoroughbred, which Yefimy had obligingly saddled up for me – called on a few officers to join me in this unconventional expedition and rode down to the village.

  And here indeed there was great commotion, as faggots of wood were piled up on the appointed spot, and nearby stood a young woman shackled to the tall and broad trunk of an ageing nut-tree, weeping silently, and around her – five whimpering urchins whose only clothing, torn adult-size shirts, reached to the knees of the older ones among them and touched the feet of the youngest. And facing them, the villagers were gathered, solemn of expression and with lips sealed, at some distance from those doomed to death by burning, while others piled more faggots on the bonfire heap.

  Naturally, my sudden appearance made an impression on the villagers. The silent group looked up at me with astonished eyes from under thick brows, the group busy around the bonfire site stopped working, the children fell silent and the woman gave me a look of heart-rending despair, through the veil of her tears.

  The surprise in the eyes of the villagers, who had taken the kalpak-caps from their tousled heads, quickly turned into undisguised fear, trepidation and a stubborn readiness to rebel and resist.

  Using the simultaneous translation services of the clever Yefimy – I turned to the villagers and in an authoritative voice, demanded to know of what the woman stood accused.

  The answer was given to me in a mumble, without the clarity required in such circumstances, and various peasants expressed contradictory opinions as to the woman’s guilt. And then they called on the village elder and he appeared on the edge of the square, approached me, stood beside my horse, took the kalpak from his head that was not yet bald, bowed a deep bow of respect, straightened up and rolled out before me the story I had already heard from Yefimy.

  "The evidence is not enough!" I declared in a manner not to be gainsaid.

  All the villagers without exception, including the shackled woman and her children and the village elder, whose beard at least was combed, unlike the beards of the other mujiks, looked up at me – the villagers in obvious indignation, the woman, with a faint flicker of hope.

  And in the tense and heavy silence prevailing all around me, I added solemnly:

  "And I undertake to provide it. Solid evidence that will finally convict the accused or clear her absolutely of all charges!"

  "How?" queried the village elder, apparently alarmed for some reason, his massive head slumping forward. Regaining some composure, he added: "And when?"

  "This very evening," I explained in a decisive tone that would brook no opposition – "I shall set an ambush for the devils and catch them."

  For better or worse – my announcement calmed frayed tempers and even found favor with the tousle haired and bearded mujiks. A murmur of basic agreement was heard.

  The woman was released and taken to her home which was kept under heavy and constant guard by peasants armed with clubs and pitchforks. Her children were quiet, having been given generous quantities of fresh milk and newly baked rye bread.

  And I for my part did not hesitate but set to work, as I have always been true to the maxim that "actions speak louder than words". I inspected the territory, accompanied by my officers, listened to their erudite comments, which sometimes bore a close resemblance to thoughts of my own which I had shared with them just moments before, I pondered, analyzed, drew conclusions and finally – set a substantial ambush, well camouflaged, in all the corners of the widow’s field, this ground that had been expertly ploughed and was now crying out for sowing.

  The decisive majority of the soldiers cooperated in the enterprise, eager to help the unfortunate woman, saddled as she was with five unhap
py children, and they set about the task with enthusiasm hardly typical of the veteran fighter – sated with battles, quick-witted and proceeding with sobriety and logic. Admittedly, there were some among them who were themselves of peasant stock, from remote regions of my homeland, as yet undeveloped and steeped in superstition, and they shied away from the avowed objective of the task, expressed in thoroughly military terms though it was, and they asked permission to stay in the camp outside the boundaries of the village, permission which was readily granted.

  The main operation I commanded myself.

  At midnight or a few minutes before midnight, shadows appeared against the background of the lighter sky to the west of the tract of land, surrounded as it was by a steel ring of battle-hardened veterans. They came closer, without fear, stepping lightly as if familiar with the terrain, and making no sound. I admit without shame that for the very briefest of moments, someone almost succeeded in undermining my enlightened belief that there are no devils at large in the world. In that briefest of moments, I could not breathe and my heart stopped beating.

  The shadows were black, tall, intimidating with their confident gait, casual movements I should say, their very appearance…

  My astonishment reached new heights when I saw a heavy sack, one of those sacks used by farmers in those parts to store the seed ready for sowing in the hungry furrows – hanging on the shoulder of each and every one of the black shapes…

  And before this most justified of astonishments had faded, the bearers of the sacks walked into the ploughed part of the field and started taking handfuls of seeds and scattering them with a steady, broad sweep, a movement to be considered blessed and conferring blessing, like that of farmers born and bred, with the expertise and experience of generations behind them.