The outburst of the lieutenant in the Hussars, the only regular officer present, fell like a cold shower, reminding them that they were at the front. All eyes turned on him, and in all of them gleamed a question. This flattered the vanity of the dark-haired hussar, who was young and good-looking, had a short, clipped moustache and a conceited air. He was the nephew of the Professor of Philosophy at the University of Budapest, and his great ambition was to be considered a connoisseur in horseflesh. Apostol had met him often at the professor’s house, and although he had thought him rather silly and empty-headed, he had become friendly with him because he was straight and sincere.
“Would you believe it, my dear fellow,” continued Varga, addressing himself to Bologa as to one who shared his beliefs and speaking quietly as if he wished to wipe out the impression caused by his indignant outburst, “we have only twice mentioned Svoboda’s execution, and do you know whom these gentlemen have voted guilty each time?—those who condemned him!”
Varga ended with a mocking smile directed at Gross, and by his speech put an end to further protests.
“No one condemns with a light heart,” said Apostol thoughtfully, “but when guilt is obvious one is compelled to do so, for the State is of far greater importance than the man and his individual interests.”
“Nothing is of greater importance than man!” said Gross, jumping up quickly as if he feared someone would prevent him from speaking. “On the contrary, man ranks above everything, even above the universe! What use would the earth be without man to see it, love it, measure it, surround it? As the earth, so the universe, which has only become an interesting reality through man. Otherwise, I mean without the soul of man, it would be nothing but a sterile heaving of blind energies. All the suns of the universe can have no other mission than to warm the body of man, which shelters the divine spark of intellect. Man is the centre of the universe because man alone has succeeded in attaining the consciousness of his own ego and in knowing himself. Man is God!”
Lieutenant Gross, who was in charge of a company of pioneers, was lean and spare, with small black, flashing eyes and a little, closely clipped goatee. When he talked he quickly became excited and his usually harsh, unpleasant voice became eloquent. He was a Jew and an engineer, employed at works in Budapest.
He stopped speaking a moment and looked round as if expecting an interruption. Meeting the eyes of Bologa, who disliked him and considered him a poseur, Gross went on contemptuously:
“The State! The State which kills! Behind us our State, in front of us the enemy State, and we in the middle, condemned to die in order to secure a peaceful, comfortable life for those brigands who are responsible for the massacre of millions of unconscious slaves. I marvel that—”
“We protect our homeland, friend, the land of our forefathers!” broke in Varga quietly, with a proud superiority in his voice.
“Is your homeland here, in the heart of Russia?” asked Gross disdainfully.
“Where one’s duty lies there is one’s homeland!” threw in Apostol, but so diffidently that no one took any notice of his words.
“Our homeland is death … death everywhere and all the time,” mumbled Cervenco with deep conviction.
“Because we are cowards!” shouted Gross excitedly. “One moment of united courage would put an end to all these infamies!”
“If everyone were like you!” said Varga, laughing so heartily that they all brightened up. “Luckily we others have not forgotten that first and foremost we are the sons and protectors of our country, my dear anarchist! Sir,” he added, turning to Klapka, “I beg you not to judge us by our words but by our deeds! We are all friends here, and when we all get together we allow ourselves more licence than perhaps we should. In this way we let off steam for the hardships we have endured. But when facing the enemy all of us do our duty with a will, even Gross, in spite of the fact that he likes to appear a rebel. In the third year of the war, after we have given so many proofs of courage, these little weaknesses of ours may well be overlooked!”
Klapka nodded with an indulgent smile, which, however, was not in keeping with the strange light which shone in his protruding eyes.
Gross was about to protest, but just then the door opened and the soldier entered, carrying platefuls of food, which he set down in front of Bologa.
After a few minutes’ silence, the conversation, chiefly carried on by Gross and Varga, again warmed up. Apostol Bologa forced himself to eat. Although he had had nothing since midday, he wasn’t hungry. He felt as tired and done up as if he had been carrying heavy loads all day long. He would have liked to take part in the discussion as usual, but he did not dare for fear that the others should notice how false and insincere his words were. That dread tortured him unceasingly and agonized his soul. He felt as if he were standing on the brink of a precipice and dared not look into its depth, although the urge to do so became more and more insistent.
“Victory is bound to come!” averred Gross pathetically, gesticulating and blinking with emotion. “A monstrous crime must of necessity engender a gigantic movement of universal revolt. It must! And then across the blood-filled trenches, across the frontiers, furrowed with graves, all the downtrodden ones will join hands with the revolutionaries and in one annihilating swoop will turn on those who have exploited them for thousands of years, and into their blood, thick with sloth, they will dip their banners of peace and of the regenerated world.”
Bologa could no longer keep silent, and asked quietly:
“A world of hate, comrade?”
“Hate—only hate will wipe out injustice!”
“Hate always engenders hate,” said Apostol, shivering. “You cannot build on hate, just as you cannot build on a swamp.…”
Before Gross could answer, Varga jumped up and said with a smile:
“Wait! Allow me! Our anarchist would have an International, wouldn’t you, comrade? Very well, behold the International!” he added with pride, raising his voice and indicating those present with a sweep of his arm. “Behold! You are a Jew, the captain is a Czech, the doctor over there is German, Cervenco is a Ruthenian, Bologa is Rumanian, I am a Hungarian.… Isn’t that true? You, what are you, lad?” he asked, turning suddenly to the soldier, who seemed to find the task of clearing the table unending.
“A soldier!” answered the fellow, startled, springing to attention.
“Of course, we are all soldiers,” Varga answered contentedly, “but what I am asking you is: what is your nationality?”
“A Croatian, may you live long!” muttered the soldier without blinking.
“You see, a Croatian!” continued the lieutenant addressing the officers. “And I am sure that in the big room over there or in the lobby we would find Poles, Serbs, and Italians, in fine all nationalities, that’s so, isn’t it? And all fight shoulder to shoulder for a common ideal against a common foe! That’s the true International, comrades!” Varga resumed his seat exultant.
“The International of crime!” said Gross gravely, adding immediately and ironically: “It’s no use, you’ll never understand, Varga. It is time lost for us to try to make you. You are a decent chap and a brave one, but in other respects …”
“In other respects, meaning in respect to your ideas, I do not even wish to understand, for in that direction lies the court martial,” answered Varga quickly, laughing contentedly.
There followed a silence, and then unexpectedly Cervenco’s voice wailing like a belated reproach:
“We need to suffer much, tremendously … Only amidst suffering can love grow and thrive, that great, real, and victorious love.… Love, dear fellows, love!”
Apostol Bologa stared into the eyes of the Ruthenian, tearful eyes yet shining with a magnetic light. But as he stared deeper Bologa became scared and startled as if he had found himself staring into the depth of the abyss which he had avoided all the evening. He wanted to say something and found himself muttering unknowingly:
“Love … love …”
&
nbsp; “Your love, however, feeds us with bullets and gibbets …” came from Gross with offensive harshness. “To-day Svoboda, tomorrow I or perhaps you others with your love. Svoboda anyway did try to lift himself out of the mire, whereas we go on floundering in it.”
“I hope you do not intend to defend treason?” interrupted the Hussar lieutenant gravely.
“Suppose while you were suffering hardships and performing deeds of gallantry over here some miscreants hanged your father at home under some accusation or other, tell me, my hero, would you not imitate Svoboda?”
“Do you mean that the father of the man hanged …?” queried Bologa, his eyes like saucers, his neck stretched towards Gross. “But why did he not speak, why didn’t he?”
“And if he had told,” said Gross contemptuously, “at most an aggravating circumstance …?”
“Oh, oh, but it is … is …” stammered Bologa, and broke off suddenly confused, a curious feeling of dryness at the roof of his mouth, as if he had just awakened from a sleep haunted by nightmarish dreams.
“Nothing can excuse treason, and besides an officer who deserts is more criminal than … more criminal!” averred Varga, getting up. “And as we are on duty again tomorrow morning, I suggest that we should be off.… For no other reason than that, I am afraid that if I stay any longer you will end by convincing me that to desert to the enemy is a gallant action!”
He tried to laugh, but not very successfully, and, going over to the couch, he picked out his coat and arms. Gross looked at his watch and said to Cervenco:
“What are we thinking of? It is late.… We can barely get three hours’ sleep.…”
The three went off together and left a heavy silence behind them. Presently Captain Klapka began to drum lightly on the table with his fingers, looking surreptitiously at Bologa, who was shaking in his chair, his face distorted with uncontrollable horror. At the table there was no one else left but a second-lieutenant of infantry, very young and very dour, who hadn’t said a single word but who had drunk several bottles of wine with the nonchalance of the precocious drunkard, and Doctor Meyer, a taciturn bear who suffered from insomnia, had a special tenderness for his “clients”, as he called those in the trenches, and who had all his meals in the small room of the “passers-through”, without ever joining in their discussions. Because the silence was becoming oppressive, Klapka said to Doctor Meyer, endeavouring to make his tone light:
“I shall have to stay here till daybreak, for I have no quarters. My orderly is keeping an eye on my kit at the station.”
The sound of the captain’s voice roused Bologa, and speaking rapidly as if he wished to stifle some guilty feeling, he said:
“If you are tired you can rest at my place, sir. I will gladly give up my bed to you. Anyway, I … I intend to go to … to my duty earlier.”
“Well, why should we not go together, friend? I don’t know the district and shall need a guide.… I have been told that I shall be in charge of the second division.”
“Then you are my commanding officer!” exclaimed Apostol, brightening up. “A still greater reason for me to repeat my invitation!”
“And I am going to accept it, for to tell you the truth, my friend, I feel rather done up, what with fatigue and emotions,” answered the captain, speaking more frankly.
The doctor who suffered from insomnia passed into the big room, and the second-lieutenant asked the soldier, who was still busy fussing at the other table, to bring him another bottle of wine. In the street Klapka and Bologa stood still to listen to the noisy laughter from the mess-room, above which there arose a hoarse voice singing flat and with great passion a sentimental love-song. The darkness was writhing all round them, and above in the sky the winds were driving hither and thither shoals of tearful clouds.
“Which way do we go, comrade?” asked Klapka in a changed voice.
At that moment, however, there appeared in the sky towards the east a beam of white trembling light, darting hither and thither hurriedly, searchingly, like a cunning spy, now standing still, now sweeping the ground swiftly and cleaving the darkness. And a minute later, far away, hey heard repeated rumblings.
“What’s this?” said the captain, surprised. “They told me there was no fighting down this way, whereas …”
“Yes … it’s nothing … nothing!” answered Bologa, following with interest the light and the rumblings. “It’s really farcical, more than farcical. Those Russians are mad.… Do you know, sir, that for the last week, nearly every night, they tease us with a searchlight as if they wished to make fun of us! A searchlight, you understand, when it is a question of fixed positions where they are familiar with every little mushroom. Ridiculous! But even more ridiculous and upsetting is the fact that we are unable to put out their toy! We have already wasted so many shells that we are ashamed of the number, and all in vain! It almost seems as if their light were bewitched, as if …”
Bologa broke off abruptly, for the beam of light disappeared, leaving the darkness blacker than before. The sound of the guns continued for a little while and then died down in its turn. The two officers went on in the impenetrable darkness, their boots squelching in the mud. The village was asleep, its houses hidden behind their thorny hedges. Presently, without stopping, Klapka said in a low voice:
“What a strange effect to-day’s execution had on those gentlemen! And they were brought over purposely so that they should go back into the trenches filled with dread, and that they should tell their men that it is better to face the bullets of the enemy than the gibbet of their own country.… Very, very strange! But if the father of the condemned man had really been hanged, then …”
Apostol looked back quickly over his shoulder as if he had heard a voice speaking to him from behind, then he muttered beseechingly:
“He was guilty, sir; he was guilty!”
They reached the corner of the lane in which the lieutenant lived. At that very minute the white light sprang up again in the sky, nearer, clearer, followed immediately by more furious rumblings.
“The light!” groaned Bologa. “It challenges one, that light… challenges one.… It seems as if no shot in the world could put it out.”
The white streak, however, again melted away, and the darkness gripped them once more like cold steel. Only within their mangled souls a few multi-coloured, comforting sparks lingered. They turned into the lane. The mud here was clayey. Bologa felt his knees trembling. He seemed to be carrying a millstone round his neck; and his lacerated heart was so full that he was tortured by a need to speak, to explain.
“Sir, consider the circumstances,” he said feverishly. “It was the first time I had sat on a court martial … And my conscience bade me do it.… He was guilty, sir.…”
Klapka was silent, as if he had not heard him speak.
V
Apostol Bologa took over the command of his battery, chatted a while with the other officers of his sector, and then retired to his dug-out to rest. He stretched himself on his plank bed. He was worn out with fatigue and insomnia, for all the previous night he had tossed in torment, but now his heart felt lighter, as if he had escaped from a torture-chamber and as if all his anguish had remained behind in the village with the gibbet. A hazy light trickled down from outside and outlined vaguely the entrance to the dug-out, the improvised table with maps and compasses, books and a few empty plates, the telephone on the wall, the two stools put out of the way. He heard the monotonous, depressing, lulling rain, and he was glad, for now his mind was held, as always when he was in the trenches. No other thought than searchlights, guns, Russians, maps, decorations …
Towards evening, Captain Klapka came to inspect. At sight of him Bologa’s spirits sank, especially when the captain informed him that he had already inspected all the other batteries and that he intended to tarry here a while as if he were in his own dug-out. Apostol made his report coldly and succinctly, as if he hoped by this means to avoid any further contact but that necessitated by the service. Kl
apka listened thoughtfully, staring compellingly at him all the while with a persistence which confused Bologa and reminded him of their meeting of yesterday in front of the gibbet. When he had finished, the captain said suddenly, speaking with great warmth and sincerity:
“You have a heart of gold, Bologa; yes, a heart of gold.… That is why you are as dear to me as one of my own kinsmen!”
The lieutenant started nervously. He could not understand what Klapka was driving at, and the thought crossed his mind that he was being drawn. In his ears, however, echoed the kindly, perturbing words which, despite their kindness, filled him with dread and made him feel as if he were being dragged towards some danger.
“I saw how you were torturing yourself the whole night long,” continued the captain, “and I understood. Perhaps I was the only one who did understand, because I … Yes, yes, don’t stare so because I have stopped short. We must ever refrain from speaking out! We must keep silent! Otherwise …”
“Sir, I think you are making a mistake. I think that …” said Bologa harshly, almost viciously. “And I really do not know what makes you attribute to me such …”
Klapka smiled so kindly that Apostol became quite confused and broke off in the middle of his sentence.
“Since the first minute we met I understood that you looked upon me as an enemy,” proceeded the captain. “I would not have minded your enmity in the least if, later on, I had not happened to see—whilst my kinsman was dangling from the rope—that your eyes were full of tears.… Don’t protest! You didn’t know it, but you were weeping.… And those tears revealed your whole heart.…”
Bologa made another attempt to defend himself. In vain. The captain seemed to feel an invincible need to create for himself a friend with whom he could share some spiritual burden. The lieutenant’s mistrust made him hesitate a little, but then fear of loneliness emboldened him to try again. So he told him that he had learnt last night from a Hungarian captain that Bologa was a Rumanian, but for all that a model officer and an incomparable patriot. That information had saddened him, for it had made him think that those tears had been misleading. He had met many Rumanian officers since the outbreak of war, and he had always got on as well with them as if he had been their kinsman. He would not believe that he had now come across a renegade. Then later on, at mess, he had understood everything, for he also had been acting a part for two years, and like a veteran actor had concealed his strong feelings under a perpetual mask. As a matter of fact, the danger for him was far greater than for Bologa, firstly because he was a Czech, and all Czechs were suspects, and secondly … He did not, however, state what the second reason was, but went on telling him that he was a native of Znaim, a charming little town, Czech to the core, and that his parents had sent him to the military school in order that he might be able to earn his own living as soon as possible, for they had had a large family and no money. He had left the military college at eighteen, but life in the Army did not appeal to him. In the summer after he had been promoted second-lieutenant he had gone home on leave and had fallen madly in love with the daughter of a professor in Znaim. He had wanted to marry her, but his beloved had not had the dowry which was obligatory for the wives of officers—in fact, she had had no dowry at all. So, as he absolutely could not give up the girl, they had become engaged. He had made up his mind to take up a new career, and she had promised to wait for him. That autumn he had entered his name for the Bar and had begun to grind at his books. It had been hard work. The service had continually retarded his progress, and his superiors had not viewed his civilian efforts with kindly eyes. Nevertheless, he had finished in seven years. He was then a lieutenant. Upon his resignation he became a captain in the Reserves and a candidate for the Bar. A year later he had started a practice and had been able to get married. His marriage had been fruitful; every year had brought its child. To-day there were four, two boys and two girls. The war had interrupted the series. The fifth was only now on its way. From a letter-case he extracted some photographs and showed them to Apostol with much pride and emotion: first the little ones in proper order, giving the name and habits of each one, then the wife.
Forest of the Hanged Page 5