Forest of the Hanged

by Rebreanu, Liviu;

  “I cheated myself with words, as if life could be guided by words!”

  And then in thought Ilona appeared before him, and at once he felt a beneficent warmth, as if her face had filled his heart with a vivified love, like a giant light in which all men and the whole world were comprised. Cheered, his eyes aglow, he whispered unconsciously:

  “Love lives for ever; it has no beginning and no end. Through love you get to know God and you ascend to the very heavens.” He sank for a few moments into a deep peace over which his soul floated serenely like a leaf on the mirror of waveless waters.

  Then he shook himself, and again began his perambulations through the little room, listening to his footsteps, which rang on the floor with the regularity of a pendulum.

  “I have lost my balance,” he said to himself bitterly. “The mind with its laws and discipline collapses like an engine into whose works a lump of rock has been hurled, as soon as it comes face to face with the wall which divides existence from non-existence! I’ll sleep and let things go their own way!”

  He threw himself again on the bed, trying to banish the thoughts which nevertheless would come to torture him like merciless foes. At intervals outside noises came to their help: the changing of the sentinel, the hooting of a motor, an angry shout. Then the midday meal … And again thoughts … thoughts all the time.

  Towards evening he heard the footsteps of the sergeant-major: perhaps the prosecutor had sent for him. He would be glad. It would mean a little respite from the tyranny of his thoughts. The sergeant-major pushed the door open and remained in the corridor. On the threshold, carrying a wooden tray on which she was bringing his supper, Ilona appeared! Apostol sprang to his feet, transported as in face of an alluring apparition. Ilona went to the table, set out the plates and knives and forks, her eyes on him all the time. Her cheeks were wet with recent tears, but her eyes and lips smiled encouragingly, humbly and shyly, trying to hide their horrible fear. She emptied the tray and then stood there a moment immovable, murmuring several times in a soft undertone:

  “God will … don’t worry … God …”

  Then she went out with eyes cast down. Apostol saw her descend the three steps. He rubbed his eyes bewildered. The sergeant-major entered and, lighting the lamp hanging from a beam, said in a low voice, so that the sentinel should not hear him:

  “The burgomaster plagued me so much and the lassie cried so much that at last I gave in and allowed her to serve you. The girl swore she would kill herself if I didn’t allow her to …We are but human, sir. Only I beg you to be careful. If the captain got to know it would be the end of me, for he is implacable.”

  Bologa stood there like a wooden post, his face illuminated by a great joy. He no longer felt alone, and his soul flamed with hope. He whispered in an ecstasy of prayer:

  “O Lord …”

  V

  The next day, the very first thing in the morning, Klapka arrived, agitated and overwrought. The sergeant-major, watch in hand, remained outside with the sentry, near the closed door.

  “We have at most one hour,” began Klapka quickly, gripping his hand. “That much time the prosecutor has granted me, and it is exceptional at that. But I don’t even need more, for I know everything … everything. I am here since last night, and I know all the details, not only from the ‘dossier’ compiled by our good magistrate … When it got about that I was your counsel I was besieged by the gravedigger, and the burgomaster, and the little lass—your betrothed. Poor girl! What a heart! Now I no longer wonder that you … Now I understand perfectly. They consulted with me as to what they could do to save you. The gravedigger, a big-hearted man, offered to knock down noiselessly the back wall of this little house so that you could run away. Childishness of an old man! The burgomaster’s wife threw herself at the general’s feet last night, wept, and begged him to forgive you. They say that the general thinks an awful lot of her, because the woman cooks him really royal meals. All she could get out of him was a promise that he would not act against you, but would allow the court to judge independently. Which means your fate and your life lie in the hands of the members of the court. With a vigorous and subtle defence I hope we shall avoid … But your statement is terrible and revolting! It is simply thrusting your head into the noose, Bologa, of your own free will! It is lucky that you had the presence of mind not to sign it. That is why I asked for a supplemental examination, and after tremendous efforts I succeeded in obtaining it. Now you have to do your share; you understand, don’t you? First of all you’ll repudiate your first statement, and strenuously, mind you; then you’ll deny firmly that you intended to desert to the enemy. The remainder will be my business. I’ll find plausible explanations for your losing your way at night on ground unknown to you. I hope even to be able to explain away in my speech the map, on which the prosecutor means to base his charge of espionage and treason. We must hope, Bologa! That’s all we can do!”

  While he had been talking Klapka had drawn the stool up to the table and had sat down. Apostol, calm, his back to the window, stood staring down at the carved inscription on the edge of the table boards: “Here I have suffered …” When the captain stopped speaking and waited expectantly, Apostol said shortly, looking him straight in the eyes:

  “When shall I be tried?”

  “In three hours’ time.… Yes … at ten … without fail,” stammered Klapka, surprised.

  Bologa’s eyes went back to the inscription; he spelt it out and resumed softly:

  “Then why is there any need to …”

  He broke off, but Klapka had understood, and he leapt to his feet, stung almost furious. He seized Bologa by the shoulder and shook him, hissing:

  “Wake up, man! Are you mad? Don’t you understand what is awaiting you?”

  “Death,” said Apostol, again looking straight at him with the ghost of a smile on his lips.

  “The halter, Bologa! Do you hear? The halter!” whispered the captain, turning red and staring against his will at Bologa’s neck encased in the high collar of the tunic. “Only a madman thrusts his head into the noose when life is full of promise for him. It is your duty to live!” he added more quietly after a pause, patting him on the back. “When you are offered an almost certain loophole of escape, you have no right to refuse it; you are not entitled to! I have also been in the same situation: perhaps mine was not quite so serious, not quite. I could see the gallows in my cell, yes … and I know that if you contemplate death too long and too profoundly it begins to look alluring. But you must tear yourself away from its allurement, Bologa, for any kind of life is better than death! I have told you so before. Life is real, whereas beyond death …”

  “How do you know that beyond death there is no real life?” asked Apostol in drawling, lazy tones. “Had you come yesterday with your loophole perhaps I would have embraced you and you would have lifted a stone off my heart. For yesterday life tortured me horribly—with ghastly red-hot irons! But last night I saw Ilona, and I found myself again, I found love again.… Otherwise how could I have endured a whole night here, alone? Now my soul is at peace. Why should I begin torturing it again? I do not desire anything more. Love is enough for me, for love embraces alike men and God, life and death! The Great Love is here in this little room. I breathe it in all the time. It is in me, and around me, in the whole of the infinite. He who does not feel it does not really love. He who does lives in eternity. With love in one’s soul one can go through the portals of death, for love rules also beyond death, everywhere in all existent and non-existent worlds. Life may tempt me again, I may still have to suffer, but …”

  Klapka listened to him impatiently, anxiously. Bologa’s words seemed to him to be the result of the fear of death. At last he interrupted him.

  “My dear fellow, you don’t realize you are rambling! A man may indulge in such phantasmagoria when he is at home or in his office, at rest, or in moments of enthusiasm, or in a debate, but not in face of death!”

  “A phantasm which reconc
iles the soul is all a man can achieve in life!” murmured Apostol with shining eyes.

  “But, my good fellow, you are going to die as a deserter, a spy, and a traitor—in short, as a criminal, not as an apostle of love,” raged the captain, adding: “And let me tell you if you continue in this way I am going to declare you insane in court, and shall save you all the same!”

  “A criminal?” repeated Bologa gently. “Any grave is an abode of love, because …”

  “That’s enough! Shut up, Bologa!” exclaimed Klapka indignantly. “I am not going to listen to your nonsense any longer. You can tell me all this afterwards, when the danger is over!”

  “Do you think a life tainted with lies would have any attraction or value?” asked Bologa in a different tone.

  “The lie which can save a man’s life is worth more than all the truths!” answered the captain with decision. “I shall do my duty to the end! I’ll save you even against your will, and I am sure that later you’ll thank me! For your sake I am braving all the suspicions that surround me. But I don’t care! Only don’t put a spoke in my wheel! That’s all I ask of you! The prosecutor will be coming.… Help me! I implore you! Good-bye—may God make you see clearly!”

  He pressed both his hands and gazed at him long, with encouragement and affection, as a father at a thoughtless child. From the door he again whispered:

  “Courage, Bologa!”

  The sergeant-major saluted, and as soon as Klapka had gone down the steps rushed into the little room and looked round searchingly. The prosecutor had ordered him, again and again, to keep a sharp look-out lest the prisoner should attempt to commit suicide. Now he trembled for fear the captain had left him some weapon. Though he could not see anything in the least suspicious, he said beseechingly:

  “Do not ruin me, sir, I beseech you! I’ll do all I can and more, only do not ruin me, sir!”

  Apostol understood and smiled. He answered with a shrug, and being tired lay down on the bed. He rested for about ten minutes or so, and then began to walk up and down and across the little room. Thus the prosecutor found him when he arrived carrying a fat portfolio under his arm. He ordered the sergeant-major to close the door and to remain inside.

  “Your counsel,” said the prosecutor coldly, gravely putting his portfolio on the table, “has informed us that you have further very important statements to make, which could modify radically my conviction, even as regards the qualification of your action. Although I do not hide from you that I doubt this, nevertheless with the permission and by the order of His Excellency I am ready to put down anything you may still have to say …”

  “I have changed my mind. I have nothing to add!” answered Apostol quickly, as if he were afraid of being too late.

  The prosecutor, who had just signed to the sergeant-major to go to the table in order to write, turned sharply to Bologa, at first surprised and then with an expression of satisfied triumph.

  “I was sure of it!” he exclaimed conceitedly. “I told Captain Klapka so … Don’t I know the psychology of guilty men? In any case, it would not be dignified for an officer, even in your case, to have recourse to falsehood. A man should have the courage to bear the consequences of his actions!”

  Apostol could not restrain a smile at the prosecutor’s maxims, and more especially at the martial tone in which he uttered them. The prosecutor, however, delighted as he was, did not even look at him, and made his way to the door. He remembered that he had left his portfolio on the table.

  “Oh yes, we must not forget,” he said, hunting in the portfolio and drawing out a letter. “Here you are! This was found yesterday at your rooms; probably it only arrived yesterday. I could not give it to you until I had found someone to translate it, for it is written in Rumanian.”

  When he was left alone, Apostol drew out his mother’s letter and read it slowly, carefully, as if he wished to understand it well or register it in his heart. He read it a second time and still could not understand a word. The words penetrated his brain without sense, like lifeless signs. While his eyes had slipped over the black lines, in his mind there was only one thought, dominating and perturbing:

  “Now I am floating between life and death, between heaven and earth, like a man who, having cut the branch from under his feet, is waiting to fall, without even knowing where he will fall.”

  VI

  “Bologa, I implore you, help me!” whispered Klapka in the prosecutor’s office—transformed into a court of justice—just before the proceedings began.

  Apostol’s eyes, red-rimmed with dark circles under them, seemed more deeply set in their sockets, and his cheeks were of a transparent pallor. On the tip of his tongue lingered the salt taste of tears, the roof of his mouth had that parched feeling which follows sleep haunted by nightmares. But in his soul peace had settled down.

  He looked round curiously, as if he had never been there before, although the room was as it had been yesterday, except that the desks had all been pushed to the back, in order to leave more space round one single long table covered with a green cloth and divided in the middle by a cross of white metal. Apostol examined all the officers who sat round the long table, stiff, straight, solemn, and almost frightened. He was glad when he saw that the president of the court was the colonel with the rugged face whom he had met in the general’s compartment, that time in the train, and who had taken his part. Now he seemed paler, and in his eyes there was something … The others he did not know, not even by sight, except Lieutenant Gross, who kept his head down as if he were ashamed. Apostol stared at him hard, wishing to meet his eyes and to ask him how it happened that he had consented to judge a comrade, and to show him that he, in any case, was neither a charlatan nor mad, for rather than condemn again he had run away.

  When he heard his name called out in a loud voice, he gave a surprised start. Why did they call out his name? He answered “Present!” and did not even grasp the situation when the colonel asked him unusual questions, as to a stranger. Nevertheless, without thinking of what he said, he answered correctly, looked the colonel straight in the eyes, realized that his life was in the balance, and seemed to hear a strange rustling of wings which wafted a cold wind through the room. But into his heart there trickled incessantly from somewhere drops of bitterness from which a creeping fear spread all over his body like some loathsome pulp. He tried to keep it off and could not, and because of this he felt that he would have to burst into sobs. It seemed to him that the president talked so drawlingly that a century passed ere he finished uttering a question to which he himself answered in three lightning words.

  Then someone near the prosecutor’s little table began to read something for some minutes, in an odd voice, pronouncing the words strangely.

  “Now tell us the motives and circumstances of the desertion!” said the colonel, moving his lips stiffly, like an automaton.

  The question fell on Bologa’s ears discordantly, like a knife which falls on a bottle and breaks it. And this sound awoke all his thoughts and feelings, sharpening them like knives, ready to cut up his body and soul. He looked towards the window and encountered the head of the prosecutor, proud and self-satisfied, as if long since he had solved all the secrets of the world. So much self-satisfaction annoyed him, and so he turned his eyes in the opposite direction, where Klapka, the defending counsel, sat. Klapka, wishing to encourage him, tried to signal to him, but this resulted in such a strange grimace that Apostol shuddered and immediately felt abandoned and alone, as if he were on a limitless prairie full of poisonous weeds and thorns. And yet, simultaneously, all his anxieties disappeared and his soul was filled with an immense trust.

  “Desertion?” he whispered, gazing with shining eyes at the white cross in front of the president.

  Then he bent his head and in the bitter silence which followed his question floated for a few moments like a gentle reproach. And again came the voice of the colonel, shaking as if some unseen hand had gripped his throat:

  “Answer my que
stion, Lieutenant Bologa!”

  And after a silence still more painful and threatening, the voice went on, still wavering:

  “Guilt, of course, is inexcusable, but the court will listen with great care to your defence. Therefore speak!”

  A soft rustling movement filled the short pause. Then, like a bullet, the voice of the prosecutor shot out indignant, mouthing his words, which echoed round the room, rose to the ceiling, then fell like blows on the heads of all those present. Then Klapka’s voice, pathetic, protesting, insistent. And both voices worked their way into Apostol’s heart, like the worms of two gimlets, and unable to bear them any longer he murmured, without raising his head:

  “Hurry, hurry, for God’s sake!”

  Although his throat was dry and the echoes of the two voices that had been speaking still lingered in the air, his whisper buzzed long in the ears of all present, and drew all eyes on him, expectant and perplexed.

  Other questions followed rapidly, the tone growing harsher and more peremptory. These dug themselves into his heart like sharp claws and pressed at his throat, stifling him. When he felt he was choking he started up terrified, yellow in the face. The collar of his tunic seemed to him an unbearable rope. With a desperate wrench he tore open his collar and shrieked hoarsely:

  “Kill me! Kill me!”

  His gesture and outburst caused amazement and indignation. The colonel sprang to his feet with flashing eyes, and banged with his fist on the table, while Apostol fell back in his chair in a heap, breathing heavily, his face the colour of slaked lime, his red-filmed gaze glued to the white cross.