The Complete Works of Isaac Babel Reprint Edition by Isaac Babel, Nathalie Babel, Peter Constantine
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The Second Brigade attacks Lutsk and withdraws toward evening, the enemy counterattacks, heavy forces, wants to break through to Dubno. We occupy Dubno.
Report: Minsk, Bobruisk, Molodechno, Proskurov, Sventsyany, Sarny, Staro-Konstantinov have been taken, they are entering Galicia where there will be a cav. maneuver—by the River Styr or the Bug. Kovel is being evacuated, heavy forces at Lvov, Moshers deposition. There will be an assault.
The division commanders gratitude for the battle at Rovno. Issue a statement.
The village silent, a light at the headquarters, arrested Jews. The Budyonny fighters bring Communism, a little old woman weeps. Ha, what a gloomy life these Russians lead! Where is that Ukrainian mirth? The harvest is beginning. The poppies are ripening, I wonder where I can get some grain for the horses and cherry dumplings.
Which divisions are to our left?
Mosher barefoot, noon, dull Lepin.
July 15, 1920. Belyov
Interrogation of defectors. They show us our leaflets. Their power is great, the leaflets help the Cossacks.
We have an interesting military commissar: Bakhturov,12 a fighter, fat, foul-mouthed, always in the front lines.
Describe the job of a war correspondent, what exactly is a war correspondent?
I have to get the operational reports from Lepin, its torture. The headquarters have been set up in the house of a converted Jew.
At night the orderlies stand in front of the headquarters building.
The harvest has begun. I am learning to tell the plants apart. Tomorrow is my sister s birthday.
A description of Volhynia. The muzhiks live revoltingly, dirty, we eat, poetic Matyash, a womanizer, even when he’s talking to an old woman he is still mellifluous.
Lepin is courting the maid.
Our units are one-and-a-half versts from Lutsk. The army is preparing a cavalry attack, is concentrating its forces in Lvov, moving them up to Lutsk.
WeVe found a Pilsudski^ proclamation: Warriors of the Rzecz Pospolita. A touching proclamation. Our graves are white with the bones of five generations of fighters, our ideals, our Poland, our happy home, your Motherland is relying on you, our young freedom is shuddering, one last stand, we will remember you, everything will be for you, Soldiers of the Rzecz Pospolita!
Touching, sad, without the steel of Bolshevik slogans, no promises and words like order, ideals, and living in freedom.
Victory will be ours!
July 16, 1920. Novoselki
Received an army order: seize the crossings over the River Styr in the Rozhishche-Yalovichi sector.
The headquarters move to Novoselki, twenty-five versts. I ride with the division commander, the staff squadron, the horses gallop, forests, oak trees, forest paths, the division commanders red cap, his powerful frame, buglers, beauty, the new army, the division commander and the squadron—one body.
Our billet, our landlord and his wife, young and quite wealthy, they have pigs, a cow, all they ever say: nemae.13
Zholnarkevich’s tale of the sly medical orderly. Two women, he had to deal with them. He gave one of them castor oil—when it got to her, he dashed off to the other one.
A terrible incident, soldiers’ love, two sturdy Cossacks came to an agreement with a woman—Can you hold out with two of us?—Yes, I can. One of them did it three times, the other one climbed onto her, she went running around the room dirtying the whole floor, they threw her out, didn’t give her any money, she had been too hardworking.
About the Budyonny commanders: are they soldiers of fortune or future usurpers? They are of Cossack background, that’s the main thing, describe the provenance of these detachments, all these Timoshenkos and Budyonnys had set up these detachments themselves, mainly with neighbors from their Cossack villages, now the detachments have been organized by the Soviet government.
The division is carrying out the order it was given, a powerful column is moving from Lutsk to Dubno, the evacuation of Lutsk has obviously been called off, troops and equipment are arriving there.
Our young landlord and his wife: she is tall with traces of village beauty, bustling about among her five children, who are rolling about on the bench. Interesting—each child looks after the next, Mama, give him titty. The mother, well built and flushed, lies sternly among her swarming brood of children. The husband is a good man. Sokolov: These pups should be shot, why keep breeding? The husband: Out of little ones big ones grow.
Describe our soldiers: Cherkashin (today he came back from the tribunal a little browbeaten), insolent, lanky, depraved, what an inhabitant of Communist Russia, Matyash, a Ukrainian, boundlessly lazy, keen on women, always torpid, his boots unlaced, lazy movements, Misha, Sokolov’s orderly, has been to Italy, handsome, messy.
Describe: the ride with the division commander, a small squadron, the division commanders retinue, Bakhturov, old Budyonny fighters, a march plays as we set off.
The divisional chief of staff is sitting on a bench, a peasant is choking with fury, points at a mare on her last legs that he has been given in exchange for a good horse. Dyakov comes riding in, the conversation is short, for a horse like this you can get fifteen thousand, for a horse like this, even twenty thousand. If it gets up, then its a horse.
They are taking away the pigs, chickens, the village wails. Describe our provisions. I sleep in the hut. The horror of their lives. Flies. Research on flies, myriads of them. Five hollering, unhappy little children.
They hide provisions from us.
July 17, 1920. Novoselki
I am beginning my war journal from 7/16.1 go to Pozha [Pelcha]. The Polit-otdel,* they eat cucumbers there, sun, they sleep barefoot behind the haystacks. Yakovlev^ promises to help. The day passes with work. Lepins lip is swollen. He has round shoulders. Hes tough to get along with. A new page: I am studying the science of military operations.
Next to one of the huts lies a slaughtered cow that has only recently calved. Her bluish teats lying on the ground, just skin. An indescribable pity! A murdered young mother.
July 18, 1920. Novoselki — Mali Dorogostai
The Polish army is gathering in the region of Dubno-Kremenets for a decisive attack. We are paralyzing their maneuver, we are a step ahead of them. The army launches an attack on the southern sector, our division is being held in reserve. Our task: to seize the crossings over the River Styr around Lutsk.
In the morning we arrive in Mali Dorogostai (north of Mlynov), we leave the transport carts behind, also the sick and the administrative staff, it is obvious that an operation is ahead.
* Charged with the ideological education of the military.
^ The political commissar of the Sixth Cavalry Division.
We receive an order from the Southwestern Front,14 when we cross into Galicia—it will be the first time that Soviet troops will cross the border—we are to treat the population well. We are not entering a conquered nation, the nation belongs to the workers and peasants of Galicia, and to them alone, we are only there to help them set up a Soviet power. The order is important and sensible—will the rag-looters stick to it? No.
We set out. Buglers. The division commander s cap glitters. A discussion with the division commander about the fact that I need a horse. We ride, forests, the fields are being harvested, but the harvest is poor, scanty, here and there two women and two old men. The centuries-old Volhynian forests, majestic green oaks and hornbeams, it is clear why the oak is king.
We ride along forest paths with two staff squadrons, they are always with the division commander, they are handpicked. Describe their horses’ garb, sabers in red velvet, curved sabers, vests, carpets over their saddles. Dressed poorly, though each of them has ten service jackets— it s doubtless a matter of chic.
Fields, roads, sun, the wheat is ripening, we are trampling the fields, the harvest is weak, the grain stunted, there are many Czech, German, and Polish settlements. Different people, prosperity, cleanliness, marvelous gardens, we eat unripe apples and pears, everyone w
ants to be quartered with the foreigners, I also catch myself wishing for that, the foreigners are frightened.
The Jewish cemetery outside Malin, centuries old, the stones have toppled, almost all the same shape, oval at the top, the cemetery is overgrown with weeds, it saw Khmelnitsky,^ now Budyonny, the unfortunate Jewish population, everything repeats itself, once again the same story of Poles, Cossacks, Jews is repeating itself with striking exactness, what is new is Communism.
More and more often we come across trenches from the last war, barbed wire everywhere, enough for fences for the next ten years,
destroyed villages, they are being rebuilt again everywhere, but slowly, theres nothing, no materials of any kind, no cement.
With the Cossacks at the rest stops, hay for the horses, they all have long stories to tell: Denikin, their farms, their leaders, Budyonnys and Knigas, campaigns with two hundred men, plundering raids, the rich, free life of a Cossack, how many officers’ heads they have chopped off. They read the newspaper, but the names just don’t sink in, how easily they twist everything.
Wonderful camaraderie, unity, love of horses, a horse takes up a quarter of a day, incessant bartering and chatting. A horse’s role and life.
Completely wayward attitude toward the leaders—they address them with the familiar “you.”
M[ali] Dorogostai was completely destroyed, is being rebuilt.
We ride into the priest’s garden. We take hay, eat fruit. A shady, sunny, wonderful garden, a little white church, there had been cows, horses, a priest with a little braid is wandering around in a daze collecting receipts. Bakhturov* is lying on his stomach eating yogurt with cherries, I’ll give you a receipt, really, I will!
We’ve eaten enough of the priest’s food to last us a whole year. Word has it he’s ruined, is trying to get a position, do you have any openings for a regimental clergyman?
Evening at my quarters. Again nemae—they’re all lying, I write in my journal, they give us potatoes with butter. Night in the village, an enormous, crimson fiery circle before my eyes, yellow fields flee from the ravaged village. Night. Lights at the headquarters. There are always lights at headquarters, Karl Karlovich** dictates an order from memory, he never forgets anything, the telephone operators sit with hanging heads. Karl Karlovich served in Warsaw.
July 19, 1920. M[ali] Dorogostai —
Smordva—Berezhtsy
Slept badly last night. Cramps in my stomach. We ate green pears yesterday. I feel dreadful. We’re setting off at dawn.
* The military commissar of the Sixth Cavalry Division.
^ Ukrainian: “there isn’t any.”
** Konstantin Karlovich Zholnarkevich, the chief of staff of the Sixth Cavalry Division.
The enemy is attacking us in the sector of Mlynov-Dubno. We pushed forward all the way to Radzivillov.
Today at dawn, the decisive attack by all the divisions—from Lutsk to Kremenets. The Fifth, the Sixth Division are concentrated in Smordva, we have reached Kozino.
In other words, were heading south.
Were pulling out of M. Dorogostai. The division commander is greeting the squadrons, his horse is trembling. Music. We are stretched out along the road. The road is unbearable. We are going via Mlynov to Berezhtsy. A pity we cant enter Mlynov, its a Jewish shtetl. We get to Berezhtsy, cannonade, the staff heads back, theres a smell of fuel oil, cavalry units are crawling over the slopes. Smordva, the priests house, young provincial ladies in white stockings, their eyes red from weeping, it has been a long time since I have seen anything like it, the priests wounded wife, limping, the sinewy cleric, a solid house, the divisional staff and the commander of Division Fourteen, we are waiting for the arrival of the brigades, our staff is on a hill, a truly Bolshevik staff: the division commander, Bakhturov, the military commissars. Were under gunfire, the division commander knows his stuff: hes clever, a go-getter, somewhat of a dandy, self-assured, the bypass movement toward Bokunin was his idea, the attack is held up, orders issued to the brigades. Kolesov and Kniga15 came galloping over (the famous Kniga, why is he famous?). Kolesovs superb horse, Kniga has the face of a bakery sales clerk, a diligent Ukrainian. Swift orders, everyone confers, the gunfire gets stronger, shells are falling a hundred paces from us.
The commander of Division Fourteen is of a weaker mettle, a fool, talkative, an intellectual, wants to pass for a Budyonny fighter, curses incessantly—IVe been fighting all night—likes to brag a bit. The brigades are winding in long ribbons along the opposite bank, the transport carts are under fire, columns of dust. Budyonny’s regiments with their transport carts, carpets across their saddles.
I feel worse and worse. I have a temperature of 39.8. Budyonny and Voroshilov^ arrive.
There’s a conference. The division commander goes flying past. The battle begins. I’m lying in the priest’s garden. Grishchuk is completely impassive. What kind of a man is Grishchuk? Submissiveness, endless silence, boundless indolence. Fifty versts from home, hasn’t been home in six years, doesn’t run away.
He knows the meaning of authority, the Germans taught him that.
Wounded men start coming in, bandages, bare stomachs, forbearing, unbearable heat, incessant gunfire from both sides, can’t doze off. Budyonny and Voroshilov on the porch. A picture of the battle, the cavalrymen return covered with dust, sweating, red, no traces of excitement, they’ve been slashing, they’re professionals, everything done with the utmost calm, that’s what sets them apart, self-assuredness, hard work, nurses go flying by on horses, a Zhguchy armored car. In front of us is Count Ledochowski’s16 mansion, a white building above the lake, not tall, not flamboyant, very noble, memories of my childhood, novels—many more memories. At the medical assistants’: a pitiful, handsome young Jew, he might well have been on the count’s payroll, gray with worry. If I may ask, what is the situation at the front? The Poles mocked and tormented, he thinks life is about to begin, but the Cossacks don’t always behave well.
Echoes of battle—galloping horsemen, reports, the wounded, the dead.
I sleep in the churchyard. Some brigade commander or other is sleeping with his head resting on some young lady’s stomach.
I have been sweating, I feel better. I ride to Berezhtsy, the headquarters office is there, a destroyed house, I drink cherry tea, lie down in the landlady’s bed, sweat, aspirin powder. It would do me good to sleep a little. I remember—I have a fever, heat, some soldiers in the churchyard kicking up a fuss, others cool, they are coupling their stallions with mares.
Berezhtsy, Sienkiewicz, I drink cherry tea, I’m lying on a spring mattress, next to me lies a child gasping for breath. I dozed off for about two hours. They wake me. I’m drenched in sweat. At night we return to Smordva, from there we continue, a clearing in the forest. Night journey, moon, somewhere in front of us, the squadron.
A hut in the forest. The muzhiks and their womenfolk sleep along the walls. Konstantin Karlovich17 is dictating. A rare picture: the squadron is sleeping all around, everything is steeped in darkness, nothing can be seen, a chill flows in from the forest, I bump into the horses, at the headquarters everyone’s eating, I feel sick and lie down on the ground next to a tachanka, I sleep for three hours covered with Barsukovs shawl and coat, it feels good.
July 20, 1920. The heights near Smordva. Pelcha.
We set out at five in the morning. Rain, damp, we stick to the forests. The operation is going very well, our division commander chose the right bypass maneuver, we re continuing to detour. Were soaked, forest paths. The bypass is taking us through Bokuika to Pelcha. Information: at 10 o’clock Dobryvodka was taken, at twelve o’clock, after negligible resistance, Kozin. We’re pursuing the enemy, we go to Pelcha. Forests, forest paths, the squadrons are winding on ahead.
My health is better, for inexplicable reasons.
I am studying the flora of the province of Volhynia, there has been much logging, the clearing in the forest with felled trees, remains of the war, barbed wire, white trenches. Majestic gree
n oaks, hornbeams, many pines, the willow is a majestic and gentle tree, rain in the forest, washed-out roads in the forest, ash trees.
To Pelcha along forest paths. We arrive around ten o’clock. Another village, lanky landlady, boring—nemat, very clean, son had been a soldier, gives us eggs, there’s no milk, in the hut it’s unbearably stuffy, it’s raining, washes out all the roads, black squelching mud, it’s impossible to get to the headquarters. Sitting all day in the hut, it’s warm, there, outside the window, the rain. How boring and banal this kind of life is for me—chicks, a hidden cow, dirt, idiocy. An indescribable sadness lies over the earth, everything is wet, black, autumn, whereas back in Odessa . . .
In Pelcha we captured the transport carts of the Forty-ninth Polish Infantry Regiment. The spoils are being divided outside my window,
completely idiotic cursing, nonstop, other words are boring, they avoid them, as for the cursing: the Mother of Christ, the Goddamn Mother, the peasant women cringe, the Mother of God, the children ask questions—the soldiers curse. Mother of God. Til shoot you, damn it! I get a document bag and a saddlebag. Describe this dull life. The peasant doesn’t go to work on the field. I sleep in the landlady’s bed. We heard that England proposed that Sov. Russia and Poland make peace—is it possible this will end soon?
July 21, 1920. Pelcha — Boratin
We have taken Dubno. The resistance, regardless of what we say, has been insignificant. What is going on? The prisoners talk, and it is clear that it is the revolution of the little people. Much can be said about that, the beauty of the Polish pediments, there is something touching about it, Milady. Fate, slighted honor, Jews, Count Ledochowski. Proletarian Revolution. How I drink in the aroma of Europe that flows from over there.