Forest of the Hanged

by Rebreanu, Liviu;

  All these staring eyes were like arrows shot straight into his heart, and once again he began to mumble: “Lord, Lord!” as a protection against the terrible shame which sapped the strength of his whole being. He kept his eyes fixed on the plum-trees in flower which rose above the roofs at the farther end of the courtyard, and so did not see the gravedigger Vidor, who, coming out of the burgomaster’s house, approached bareheaded, unable to believe the testimony of his own eyes, horrified.

  “What has happened, sir?” stammered the gravedigger, halting a few paces away. “We thought you had gone home last night because of Ilona. And now … My God, what a misfortune!”

  “Yes, because of Ilona,” answered Bologa, starting and turning his eyes on Vidor with a flicker of joy. But at that very moment it flashed upon him that the paper which Varga had brandished in his face last night was the map of the front with the positions of all units, and he wondered what Varga had meant by brandishing it at him, and why had he mentioned the map especially?

  “Back! It is not allowed!” growled a grumpy soldier at the gravedigger, who had tried to come nearer, and who recoiled at those words as if stung by an adder.

  The second-lieutenant appeared amongst the soldiers grouped round the doorway, and signed to the escort to bring their prisoner over.

  In a room full of writing-desks of all shapes the military prosecutor stood waiting impatiently. He had been informed during the night and had everything ready to speed things up. At last he had an exceptional “case”! He rubbed his hands and walked backwards and forwards, continually colliding with the corners of the desks. He looked pleased and excited. On one side, at a desk, sat the ashen-faced sergeant-major, twisting in his hands a penholder fitted with a new nib.

  When Bologa entered the prosecutor took up his position behind one of the desks, listened gravely to the second-lieutenant’s report, took over the parcel with the “objects found in the prisoner’s pockets”, and signed a formal receipt. But as soon as the second-lieutenant had departed the prosecutor’s face again reflected such satisfaction that Apostol smiled at him trustfully and with relief.

  “Well, sir,” said the prosecutor blandly, exactly in the same voice as of yesterday when Bologa had arrived in the car, “we must proceed quickly and systematically and not lose any time, must we? Take it all down, sergeant-major! You, please sit down there, nearer!”

  While the prosecutor was dictating to the sergeant-major the usual introductory phrases Apostol Bologa sat down on a chair between two writing-desks, feeling calm but dominated by an annoying feeling of shame. The prosecutor read twice Varga’s report, nodding with satisfaction, then opened the parcel, examined every article with minute care, smiling to himself now and again like a man who sees his deductions confirmed, and so grows in his own estimation.

  “And now please give me brief, soldier-like answers to the questions I am going to ask you,” murmured the prosecutor, without looking at him, and continuing to examine the “exhibits”.

  Apostol, filled all at once with a violent desire to unburden his heart, answered hurriedly, barely keeping control of his tongue, trying at each question to explain to the prosecutor secret spiritual impulses. But the prosecutor cut him short continually with new bewildering questions, adding that clear, precise facts only were of interest to him, not explanations. As he talked Apostol became worked up, his face flushed, and a strange light flamed in his eyes. At last the interruptions got on his nerves to such an extent that he got up and in a shrill voice said:

  “Captain, I do not wish to conceal anything—not a shadow—not a detail which can contribute to the clearing up of—the situation! On the contrary, I want to open out my heart to you as to a father confessor, so that you should be able to understand how my spiritual equilibrium was disturbed.”

  “Please remember that I am merely the judge who wishes to get at the truth and not a father confessor!” answered the prosecutor with a cold and slightly mocking smile. “So far we have one point gained, viz. the acknowledged attempt to desert, is that correct?”

  Bologa, startled by the quality of his smile, was silent.

  “As I was saying, confessed and acknowledged,” resumed the prosecutor. “Motives? H’m! … I hope we’ll discover the motives also in time. Please give me tangible things, not … spiritual equilibrium! In any case, being nominated to sit on a court martial, you must own, cannot be a motive for desertion to the enemy, can it? If your conscience had found that the accused were innocent, you were perfectly free to say so. To mete out justice or to punish the guilty is no crime but every man’s duty. In this respect you, a man who had studied much, who would have been called upon to-day or tomorrow to play a leading part in society, you especially should have …”

  “Sometimes it is more terrible to judge others than to be judged oneself!” said Apostol, as if the great light had been kindled in his soul.

  “Yes, of course, if someone … But more of that later on!” said the prosecutor, again rubbing his hands. Then, picking up the open map and holding it under the prisoner’s eyes, he added triumphantly: “And this, how does it fit in with the tale of spiritual equilibrium? Would you kindly explain that to me?”

  Apostol paled. In a flash he remembered how he had lied last night, saying he had forgotten something, and how to substantiate his lie to Ilona he had taken the map, and yet now he realized that even as he was slipping it into his pocket he had felt that he must have that map, that he would most assuredly need it.

  “That is the official sketch necessary to my work,” he began, looking down at the map and seeking instinctively the road by which he had meant to cross over and the spot at which he had encountered Varga.

  “I know, I also am a soldier,” answered the prosecutor with scorn. “But how did it get into your pocket? And just when you were trying to desert to the enemy?”

  “Because … because …” stammered Apostol confused, the blood mounting to his face; and then breaking off ashamed, for once again he had been on the point of lying.

  “I’ll tell you why,” resumed the prosecutor, looking at him long and searchingly. “Because you did not want to go empty-handed! Isn’t that it?”

  Bologa made no answer, and did not even waste another glance on the prosecutor, who, after a short pause, continued, folding the map and throwing it on the desk:

  “And now I am also going to explain to you the real motives which you are trying to hide under fairy-tales of spiritual equilibrium!”

  Before Apostol had actually arrived the prosecutor had discovered “the real motives” and the cross-examination had merely confirmed his discovery. The seven hanged men, together with the twelve waiting out there in the outhouse, were members of a vast organisation of spies and traitors, nested in the very heart of the division, owing to the indolence of the general, who would not listen to his counsel. Naturally such a criminal body could not have worked so secretly except under particularly clever leadership. Those caught had refused to confess their guilt, even in face of the halter—a marvellous proof of the solidity of the organization. His secret ambition had been, right from the start, to get hold of the leader of the band. This might even win him a decoration, apart from the prestige it would assuredly give him. In fine, Bologa! The prosecutor only marvelled that the thought had not struck him before, so that he could have had him watched. Bologa, a Rumanian, on the Rumanian front—what could be clearer! If chance had not unexpectedly come to the help of justice the criminal might have continued to operate without interference! An officer with decorations, a hero—who was to suspect him? His nomination to sit as a member of the court had upset all his plans. How was he, the leader of the band, to condemn his accomplices? It would have meant running too great a risk; any of the accused, seeing him on the jury, might have revolted and torn off his mask. Rather than expose himself to so risky an eventuality Bologa had chosen the best way out, namely, flight to the enemy, whom he had served faithfully, and where no doubt rich rewards were awaiti
ng him. For that reason he had also taken the map on which he had marked not only the positions of the troops but the exact locality of all the different services of the division, even this very house where the prosecutor’s office was, in order that the enemy aeroplanes should be able some day to drop bombs on this very spot, and kill him—the prosecutor—also.

  Apostol Bologa listened at first with amazement and bewilderment to the prosecutor’s reasoning, but after a while he smiled incredulously, as if he were listening to a curious tale. But when at last it dawned on him that it was a serious matter, and that his life hung on this “reasoning”, it seemed to him that he had been trailing his soul in the mud for the last hour, and a feeling of unutterable disgust for everybody swept over him. Henceforth, whatever the prosecutor said no longer interested him. He turned his head away and looked out of the window, and his eyes fell on the kiosk which the burgomaster had pointed out to him yesterday as a place where he could sleep. “Well, the doll’s-house won’t be empty any longer,” he thought, seeing an armed soldier standing in the corridor of the kiosk, his head almost touching the roof.

  The prosecutor tried to get something more out of him, but Bologa did not utter another word.

  “Very well, you are not obliged to answer,” said the prosecutor, unruffled, blinking rapidly. “We have sufficient proofs, and we’ll have plenty more. That’s all right. Now read the statement and sign it, please.”

  Apostol did not move. The prosecutor considered him awhile, controlling his irritation, and then said, his eyes like slits:

  “Of course I can’t force you to sign. But don’t think that this will obstruct the course of justice! … That’s all right! Don’t think perhaps that …”

  He broke off, and turning to the sergeant-major, added:

  “You’ll take the accused to his prison; for the time being I’ve finished with him. I hope you have made the necessary arrangements? Then you’ll leave at once for Lunca, you’ll carry out a minute search of the accused’s quarters, and you’ll bring back with you all his things, and more especially all documents and papers you find!”

  Outside the soldiers crowding in the doorway made way for them. The May sunshine kissed the prisoner’s cheeks. In the middle of the courtyard General Karg, gesticulating violently, was arguing with a colonel. The sergeant-major saluted very smartly. Apostol felt acutely the general’s furious and indignant gaze, but he did not flinch. In going past the burgomaster’s house he came face to face with the gravedigger Vidor and the burgomaster’s wife. They looked at him with eyes full of fear and compassion. He answered with a confident smile, as if he meant to tell them that all this was of no importance whatever.

  He walked up the steps of the little house and now saw at close quarters the petrified soldier in the corridor: tall, very thin, and lanky, his face wan and yellow, his clothes filthy and several sizes too large for him, he was doing his best to look martial. The sergeant-major threw open the door, allowing Apostol to enter first.

  “If you desire anything will you please call me? I am sending you coffee immediately, or would you prefer tea?”

  He waited a minute, but receiving no answer he went out, pulling the door to. He turned the key twice in the lock and then fastened a large padlock to the door. His instructions to the soldier were purposely given in a loud voice to enable the prisoner to hear: the soldier was not to budge from the corridor, was to look in through the window from time to time, and was to call him (the sergeant-major) if anything happened. The soldier had to repeat the instructions three times. Then the sergeant-major ran down the wooden steps.

  IV

  Apostol Bologa had remained stock-still in the middle of the little room, his eyes turned towards the tiny window near the door. He started when he heard the key being turned in the lock, and he listened to the instructions given to the sentinel without moving, as if he had been glued to the spot. He then heard first the sergeant-major’s departing footsteps on the wooden stairs, then heavy footsteps in the corridor, and finally he saw framed in the window a little square piece of the soldier’s greenish tunic rucked into folds by the black cartridge-cases, and the rifle-strap clutched by a gnarled, chapped, and very dirty hand.

  He took stock of his surroundings. His eyes wandered to the table fastened to the wall, to the bed in the corner with bedclothes turned down, to the stool at the foot of the bed, to the wash-stand in the other corner. Slowly, noiselessly, he took off his helmet and set it down with care on the stool. He smoothed back the hair on his temples with both palms, passing them over his temples again and again, as if he wished to alleviate a pain. Then he walked to the door, four paces, and came back to the table. It was obviously long since the walls had been whitewashed and the whitewash was peeling off. He rested his hands on the ledge of the table. The boards did not meet well, and the space in between was filled with black dirt, although it was obvious that the table had quite recently been scrubbed with lye and sand. On the edge nearest the wall, in letters carved with a pocket-knife was written: “Here I have suffered … days.”

  “The Bosnian standard-bearer,” thought Apostol, remembering the burgomaster’s words. “Why doesn’t he say how many days?”

  His brain felt so numb that his thought trailed off. He realized this, and moved backwards and forwards several times to bring back consciousness. The face of the prosecutor appeared before him. He sat down on the bed, swinging his legs from the knee. Now the window was a wooden cross in a white square.

  “The outer wall of the prosecutor’s office,” thought he, and as the face reappeared before his eyes he muttered rhythmically: “The idiot! The idiot! The idiot!”

  Then all the other events since his encounter with Varga came back to him one by one. The seconds filed past in his soul, each one teeming with life—like glass bubbles through which the contents were visible. But they went past with dazzling speed, like a film worked madly, and nevertheless each one was terrifyingly distinct. There were thousands, perhaps millions of them, and they flashed by in the twinkling of an eye, and returned the very next moment, unending, untiring. And he rummaged amongst them, and as he watched them murmured:

  “A second more powerful than a man’s life.”

  Presently he thought that what he had said was incorrect, and shaking his head he added:

  “Man’s life is not without but within—in the soul. What is without is unimportant—it has no being. Only the soul exists … When my soul will no longer be, all the remainder of me will cease to be—all the remainder …”

  Through the window he saw two soldiers go through the courtyard holding hands. And the trend of his thoughts changed.

  “And yet it is the remainder of me that decides the fate of my soul. And the remainder of me depends on something else. Everywhere dependence. A circle of interdependence in which each link prides itself on its absolute independence! Only God …”

  The key turned twice in the lock, the door opened, and a soldier put a loaded tray on the table. The sergeant-major, before relocking the door, said respectfully:

  “There is coffee or tea—for you to choose from.”

  With hands resting on the edge of the bed, with his feet hanging down motionless, Apostol stared hard at the tray on the table. He remembered that he had eaten nothing since yesterday midday. He got up and drank the tea greedily. Afterwards he was overcome by a heavy torpor. He no longer cared that he was locked up in a small room with a sentry standing outside the door. He stretched himself on his back and shut his eyes. He stayed like that, his mind empty, for a time that seemed to him an eternity. Then he glanced at the watch on his wrist.

  “Eleven!” he thought disappointedly. “Hardly an hour since I am here. If the time is going to drag like this I’ll go out of my mind!”

  He jumped off the bed and began to walk backwards and forwards, trying to understand clearly just how he stood. The thoughts in his brain were disconnected and confused, but the fear and anxiety in his heart was strong and clear. He n
ow knew that something horrible was in store for him, something that threatened the very foundations of his being. With his back to the door he stood staring into space, and all at once the thick branch of the tree which had held only one victim appeared before his eyes, like an arm pointing to a fixed goal in the future. He wanted to shriek, to protect himself, and with great difficulty he managed to keep on walking to and fro more and more rapidly, clenching the hands which were crossed behind his back. He tried to find a defence against the prosecutor, and found it in his past actions.

  “A brave deed surely counts for more than a momentary lapse,” he murmured with renewed confidence. “Every fighter knows that brave men have moments of weakness. But just one lapse cannot wipe out a whole life of deeds, no matter how hard the prosecutor tries to disparage me”.

  Gradually he grew calmer. Love of life found constant arguments and proofs in his favour. Afterwards a new life would begin from the very foundation, built on realities, not on chimeras. All his past life had grown from a diseased root which he must tear out from his soul at once. He needed a different soul, free from everlasting doubts and maxims capable of facing the world as it was, not as a morbid imagination pictured it. Meditations merely provoked conflicts with the world.

  “A lot will depend on who will be the members of the court,” he switched off, curbing his thoughts. “And also on the counsel! Who is going to defend me? Oh, yes—Klapka. Did I tell the prosecutor? It was his first question, and my first answer.”

  Klapka? Perhaps it would be better to have some brave soldier whose words would move and carry weight with those on the jury. Klapka? Perhaps it was due to Klapka himself that he was where he was. It was he who had come along with his Forest of the Hanged, and had trickled doubts into his heart. Life was a declivity with one end in heaven and the other in nothingness, and man had to make immense efforts to keep his footing, and if once he slipped no one could restore to him his equilibrium.