By now I was suffering from the most dreadful dysentery. If there’s anything going round, your dad will catch it first. I was never first in anything at school, that was Jerzy, he won everything. As for me? Well, I was good at languages but otherwise I was neither too clever nor too fast, but if there was a cold in the air I would catch it first. Oh it was dreadful – this dysentery – I must have fertilized a thousand trees. I can laugh now but . . . ah . . . ow . . . actually remind me not to laugh . . . it hurts too much. Thank God we had time to regroup at the Dunajetz. We were there for a while. Long enough for our supply lines to be re-established and for the kitchens to stock up with proper food. My stomach knitted back together and little by little the exhausted rabble began to resemble an army again. The Germans had lost confidence in us – hardly surprising really – they promised to send reinforcements. We were glad of it, we needed all the help we could get, but the best news of all was that the mail service had resumed and letters began to arrive. Every day I would wait for the postman like a loyal dog. When nothing came I would leave with my tail between my legs. There was never anything for me. Where were my parents, my brothers and sisters, and where was Lotte? Had the Russians swallowed them up? Were they on the road west? Were they even alive? As time went by I feared the worst. Eventually I stopped waiting for the postman because I couldn’t bear to see the excitement on the faces of my friends when their names were called. Király, with whom I had the misfortune of sharing a tent, mocked me. He too had received no mail but it didn’t seem to trouble him. He said he loved nobody and was loved by nobody. Life was simpler that way. It didn’t lead to disappointment.
For the next couple of months we advanced and retreated like yo-yos, but for all our efforts we never managed to cross the San. I could tell you many a story, Fischel, about what I got up to in the war but in the end they’ll all sound the same, so I’ll spare you the details. Let it suffice to say that by the end of November we were back at the Dunajetz, the German reinforcements were nowhere to be seen, the Russians were within twelve kilometres of Cracow and for the first time they had crossed the Carpathians into Hungary and taken the town of Bartfeld. So winter was upon us and the empire was quaking, the Russian hordes were about to stampede down the mountains towards Budapest.
Now did I tell you about Przemyśl . . . no? . . . I must have forgotten. Przemyśl was a strategic fortress town on the San; it was of great psychological importance to our commander in chief, Baron Conrad von Hötzendorf, because it had been his headquarters at the start of the war. Conrad vowed never to surrender it, so even as the rest of us were retreating he left a hundred and twenty thousand troops inside to defend it. Now it was completely surrounded and the men were trapped. But Przemyśl was well fortified and had provisions to last until spring. Everything we did from then on was aimed at pushing the Russians back from the Carpathians and recapturing the fortress before our men starved to death. To lose Przemyśl with so many men would have been the ultimate humiliation, so what did Conrad do in his desperation? He conceived the most ludicrous plan of the whole war. At the turn of 1915, he sent his army up a mountain in winter.
On the day of our departure Király came into the bivouac carrying a large brown-paper package.
‘Someone loves you after all,’ I laughed.
‘No, someone loves you,’ he said bitterly, and threw the package at my head.
I examined it carefully before opening it. It had been posted in Vienna and my name was written on the front in bold black ink. On the back in smaller letters was the name Lotte Steinberg and an address that I did not recognize. I brought it up to my nose and inhaled deeply. There was a faint scent of perfume mixed with a much stronger leathery smell. Király was staring at me jealously. There was no way I was going to share this moment with a Hungarian peasant, so I left the tent and opened my parcel outside. Inside was a fur waistcoat and gloves, both made from the thick golden brown skin of a bear. Tucked inside the pocket of the waistcoat was a letter. It was the last letter I received from Lotte during the war, and over the coming years I read it so many times that I virtually know it by heart. Fischel, open the top drawer in the writing desk behind you . . . under the round paperweight you’ll see a couple of envelopes . . . yes those are the ones . . . could you pass them to me? Thank you. This is the one.
My dear Moritz,
Please forgive me for not writing earlier. The last few months have been extremely difficult. We fled Ulanow in September taking what we could, which was not much. My father hid the rest of his pelts and coats under the floorboards of the factory. We went to Rudnik to catch a train to Cracow, but all the trains were crammed with wounded men and equipment. My father tried to bribe one of the officers. Unfortunately for us he picked an honest man who told us he could not let civilians board the trains under any circumstance. So we went back to the road with our horses and carts and joined the exodus to the west. I have never known such misery and degradation. We slept on the carts in the rain, and even though we were lucky to be under furs we were never dry. At every village we tried to find accommodation in a tavern or hotel, we even offered good money to stay in people’s homes, but wherever we went the army had already commandeered everything. The best rooms were taken by the officers and there were so many soldiers that even the barns were full. We Jews were like a plague of rats roaming the countryside. Everything was mud, my father’s beard was matted and all of my poor mother’s dresses were stained and shredded. We collected rainwater in pans and used up half in a vain attempt to keep clean, but within minutes of washing we were filthy again. I saw men and women stop and defecate at the side of the road in front of hundreds of onlookers. They had lost all sense of propriety. What state of mind must a person be in to do such a thing? Surely we must maintain our sense of dignity even in times of hardship? For without it we are no better than animals.
Perhaps the worst part of the journey was the insults and abuse we received at the hands of the Poles. The Poles have never been good to us at the best of times but they have really turned on us now. Do you know that in some villages no sooner had the Jews packed their bags than the Poles were waiting at the door to move into their homes? Surely they wouldn’t do that in Ulanow? We threw so many summer parties and treated our staff well; they wouldn’t turn on us there, would they, Moritz?
We didn’t have enough fodder for the horses and they could barely pull our carts, which were heavy with fur coats. The coats were stopping our progress. My father, ever the businessman, saw an opportunity to make some money. ‘Money will be more useful to us than fur,’ he said. He stood on the cart and shouted, ‘Furs going cheap, rabbit, fox, mink. You name it we’ve got it.’ Can you believe it, Moritz? It really made us laugh. And you know what? A little crowd of people gathered round the cart and started to finger the furs with their muddy hands as if they were in the market. We had become an island of normality in the midst of chaos. A good trader can tell what a customer can afford by the cut of his jacket, the quality of his fingernails, the ruddiness of his face, but here even the rich looked poor. My father was canny, he was not going to give his goods away for nothing, he knew there was not a man, woman or child on that sodden road who did not dream of wrapping themselves in a soft warm fur; so he held an auction. ‘What do I hear for this lovely pure white coat, made from the finest rabbit in Galicia?’ he cried, holding up a coat which was now as white as a soup-stained tablecloth. At that moment fur was clearly more useful than money to the people gathered round, because the bidding was fierce. People reached deep into their ragged pockets and bags and pulled out fistfuls of grimy notes to wave at us. We sold thirty coats and twenty-three hats in three hours, and none for less than half price. My father was delighted, he said he had never sold so many coats so quickly in all his life.
I kept a bear pelt to sleep under because it has the warmest and most lovely soft fur of all the skins that we sell. They’re very rare you know, we don’t have many. When at last we got to Cracow I set about cut
ting and sewing it for you. We’re in Vienna now staying with a friend of my father who owns a department store. We can’t stay here for ever and my father wants to go back to Ulanow as soon as we win it back. Do you think we’ll ever win it back, Moritz? The news from the front is so grim. We seem to be losing horribly, although the Germans are doing much better in Prussia. Anyway I think about you all the time and worry about you. I’ve been several times to check the lists of fatalities from the front and am horrified by the numbers we have lost, but always relieved that your name is absent. Quite a few boys from Ulanow died in the first month, we could hear mothers wailing in the street when the news arrived. Please be careful, be a coward if you must, I’d rather marry a coward than weep over a dead hero.
Have you heard from your family? Your mother and father decided to stay behind in Ulanow, they said they were too old to leave. But your brothers and sisters left with the rest of us. Eidel said they were going to Berlin. Perhaps your elder brothers won’t have to serve as reservists. Or maybe they’d rather fight for the Germans, they seem to be so much better organized than us.
I fear this war will last much longer than we were told. They said it would be over by winter and it’s January already, so who says it won’t last until next winter or the one after? I made you these gloves and I thought a waistcoat would be better than a coat because you can wear it under your uniform if you get cold. Can you imagine if you went into battle wearing a fur coat? You would be a laughing stock. Anyway this skin will keep a bear warm in winter so it should do for you. Remember, I slept under it for a month so think of me when you wear it.
Now listen, my angel, you must write to me whenever you can. Your letters give me hope. Send them to Vienna for now but if the army recapture Ulanow my father will take us back there. He is lost without his factory. At first he had nothing better to do with his time than invite eligible young men (and some not-so-young men) round to meet me. It was a dreadful business; I could not even look at them. They seemed so stuffy and shallow compared to my boy from the San. Eventually I plucked up the courage to tell my father that so long as you are alive my heart is yours. And you know, I think the war has softened him a little because he stopped his matchmaking there and then and said he would agree to whatever made me happy. So there, Moritz, isn’t that good news? We can wed as soon as you get home. So hurry up and beat the Russians. I love you more each day.
Your Lotte
There . . . you can put it back in the drawer, Fischel . . . thank you.
I hurried over to the latrines, slipped off my greatcoat and jacket and tried on the waistcoat. It was a good fit. I ran my fingers through the fur and imagined Lotte’s sleeping body lying under it. It was pleasing to touch and I could feel its warmth immediately. It was a squeeze to get my jacket on over it but I managed. The gloves were magnificent, but so bulky they looked like oven gloves. The fingers were too fat to fire a rifle. I stuffed them into my haversack next to my silver-grey water bottle and ran off to find Jerzy and tell him my news. As I was making my way to the canteen I was stopped in my tracks by a piercing voice behind me.
‘Daniecki, come here.’
A jolt went down my spine; I knew that voice immediately. Could he still be alive? And if he was alive what was he doing here? I turned slowly and saw the tall figure of Lieutenant Neidlein. The Great Viennese Sausage was back. He’d been patched up and reconditioned and, my goodness, did he look terrifying. His face was horribly distorted. His right ear was nothing more than a scarred stump, his cheek on the same side had caved in under his eye socket and his misshapen mouth slanted up to meet it in a sordid grin. The red raw scar tissue that covered his wounds was painful to look at.
‘Welcome back, Lieutenant,’ I offered.
Neidlein stared at me intently. I was unable to read his expression. ‘It’s good to be here, I was bored to death in hospital,’ he slurred. ‘We have a war to fight and we’re going to win it. But first I have a few scores to settle.’
From then on I was made to suffer.
There are few roads in the Western Carpathians and only three passes, and as far back as I can remember they were always impassable in winter. It was our unenviable task to defend the Lupków Pass, the middle one of the three. It’s not so much that the mountains are high, but they are rugged and steep and the snow lies heavy in the passes. We toiled like slaves to carry our guns and supplies up the southern slopes. On the northern side the Russians were also planning a winter offensive.
I lost count of the number of times Neidlein made me go up and down the mountain those first few days. We all worked hard but the worst jobs always fell to me. There was no shortage of back-breaking chores, and while I was endlessly lugging up great trunks laden with ammunition or heavy kitchen equipment, Jerzy had become the lieutenant’s tea boy; he was promised promotion and spared any hard labour.
During our first night up the mountain a snow blizzard battered the tent. No one could sleep for the thumping wind that thwacked against the canvas. The guy ropes groaned under the strain. We had a new recruit, a Pole by the name of Zubrisky who fancied himself as a comedian. Still not tainted by the cynicism of the battle-weary, he found the whole thing rather exciting. He had an inexhaustible repertoire of filthy jokes which had Jerzy and me in stitches. All night long he entertained us with his repartee. I tried to translate them into German for Király but somehow I didn’t have the delivery, or his German wasn’t good enough, because he didn’t laugh once and he kept saying, ‘Yes, and why so funny?’
By morning, half a metre of snow had fallen and we had to dig ourselves out. From that day on we slept with our spades inside the bivouac. We grew to love the snow because when the snow fell it was warm, but sometimes it was too cold for snow and then we froze. On those days the triggers on the rifles jammed and we could only get them working by holding them over fires; even the water in our bottles froze. Our supply lines, which were already stretched, virtually closed as the paths turned into sheet ice. I saw men plummet to their deaths when they lost their footing struggling up the mountain under their loads. As for the fighting, Fischel, well I’m afraid it was more of the same. We attacked on many occasions but failed each time to capture any more than a few hundred metres of snow, and of course we lost thousands of men in the process.
Somewhere in a warm command centre hundreds of kilometres from danger, a handful of generals were quaffing port, puffing cigars and sinking into their leather armchairs as they pushed us around a map spread out on their mahogany coffee table. Millions of lives callously disposed of in a game of chess where all the pawns would be sacrificed to save the king. Meanwhile the soldiers in Przemyśl were beginning to starve as they waited for the Carpathian deadlock to be broken.
On still nights the silence of the padded snow-capped mountains carried our voices around the peaks and we could hear the Russians talking in their tents. I was tired of hating them.
There was no escaping the cold: it crept into our boots and gnawed at our toes, it burnt our ears, numbed our limbs. Our fingers grew stiff and brittle, our minds dull. We became listless and inert. We stumbled around our posts, rubbing our hands and slapping our thighs to get the blood moving. We were ageing quicker than nature intended, we shambled about the camp with shoulders hunched and heads bowed, speaking in croaks and aching all over. The lucky ones lost toes and fingers from frostbite or caught pneumonia and were ferried down the mountain. If I hadn’t worn Lotte’s waistcoat I would have been the first to succumb.
I can’t remember how long we’d been in the Carpathians when an icy Siberian wind howled through the pass and chilled us to the marrow. A ferocious blizzard sent us scurrying to our tents. That night the temperature plummeted so low the thermometers cracked. We shivered uncontrollably and no one, not even Zubrisky the Polish chatterbox, spoke as we fought our personal battles against the cold. I began to lose feeling in my toes, and the numbness was climbing up my legs. I brought my knees up to my chest and tried to wriggle my feet insid
e my boots. My head was splitting, the liquid in my brain seemed to be clotting and my thoughts ambled aimlessly before losing sense and dissolving to nothing. A terrible lethargy overcame me. All I wanted to do was sleep, and silence the insistent little voice that told me to stay awake. I put my head in my hands and warmed my breath in the fur. I let my heavy eyelids fall shut, just for a moment, just to let them rest . . . and then I couldn’t remember why I had to keep them open. The fight had left me.
I woke up with a start; something was tugging at my head. I opened half an eye and saw that Király was sitting on top of me trying to pull off my gloves. I was frozen to the bone and didn’t have the strength to push him off. ‘What the hell are you doing?’ I croaked.
He jumped back in shock. ‘Oh my God, you’re still alive!’
He was wearing three greatcoats and had a blanket wrapped around his head. I looked about me and saw that all of the men were sleeping without blankets and coats. Király had taken them all.
‘Of course I’m alive, what are you doing?’ I was still shaking off sleep.
‘You’re the only one – they’ve all frozen to death,’ he gasped.
I pulled myself up on to my elbows and looked more closely. I hadn’t noticed that their faces were tinged with blue and their lips were purple. I crawled over to each man in turn and felt for his pulse. Kellman dead, Zubrisky dead, Polisensky dead, Schonnbrun dead, Landau dead. Finally I got to Jerzy Ingwer and placed my finger on his wrist. ‘He’s still alive, Király, I can feel a pulse.’ I grabbed a couple of the stolen blankets from Király’s bed and laid them over Jerzy. ‘So they weren’t even dead when you took their blankets.’
Random Acts of Heroic Love Page 10