Random Acts of Heroic Love

by Danny Scheinmann

  ‘Still, it’s got to be worth the risk, hasn’t it? What’s the worst they can do? Fill us with ideas? Have you thought of volunteering?’

  ‘I don’t think someone like me . . . you know . . . but yes, I have thought about it, if only because I’m bloody starving and I’m begging off people who are starving themselves. I can’t live off rotten potatoes all my life,’ he frowned and stuffed the potato in his pocket. ‘And to think I used to have a cook!’ If I hadn’t already guessed from his aristocratic accent and the way he called me soldier, I knew it for certain now. Everything about his demeanour told me this man was an officer. Oskar stared at me guiltily, ‘Christ, have I given myself away? Don’t say a bloody word.’

  ‘No, of course not. I don’t care.’

  ‘Thank you, I’d be hung and boiled like a beef tafelspitz if they found out.’

  I was curious to know how he had escaped execution. He was wearing the coat and boots of a private, and perhaps he’d stolen them, but he would not be drawn on the subject.

  ‘The less you know the better, and what you think you know already can harm us both. Remember I have told you nothing, soldier. Be happy in your ignorance and ask no more.’

  We spent the night in the ransacked former residence of an escaped bourgeois. Oskar said he was never short of a good place to sleep: he’d keep half an eye open during the day to see where the Cheka had been, then steal a night in their wake, every night a different house, the grander the better. We shared his sad potato along with a loaf of dry bread that I bought with my last roubles, and discussed all the options open to us. By morning I had persuaded him, against his better judgement, to accompany me to Bolshevik headquarters in Saratov.

  ‘They’ll smell me out, Moritz, they’re not stupid,’ he said nervously as we made our way through town.

  ‘How are they going to know?’

  ‘The same way you did, you fool. It took you all of five minutes. Pedigree has no hiding place, soldier.’

  ‘Keep your head down and stop calling me soldier, it gives you away. You’ll be fine, Oskar, your inner peasant is just waiting to come out.’

  Oskar roared with laughter, ‘Good one, old boy. Think peasant! Think peasant! The bloody world has turned on its head.’

  Our conversation was halted by a commotion coming from a grey stone apartment block ahead of us. A woman was screaming from somewhere inside. Suddenly we heard a window smash and a spray of glass rained on to the pavement in front of us; Oskar pulled me over to the other side of the road and quickened his pace. As we drew level with the building I could hear the dissonant barking of male voices. I looked up to the broken window and saw a flurry of movement; a man in a dark tailored suit was backed up against the frame clutching the curtains whilst several others appeared to be striking him. He took a blow to the head and fell backwards, the curtain rail gave way under the weight, and he plunged through the window hitting the paving stones with a dull thud and a bounce. The drapes drifted down to cover him like a ready-made shroud. I stopped in my tracks; I was ready to run over to him but Oskar shoved me in the back. ‘Keep going.’

  A boy ran out of the front door and threw himself on top of the corpse, crying for his father. Not one person came to his aid, no one even stopped. We hurried on in silence, but as we neared the end of the street I turned back to see a woman being dragged by her hair on to the street by three plain-clothed men. Before I could see what was happening Oskar had dragged me round a corner.

  ‘Don’t get involved with the Cheka.’

  Eventually we came to a magnificent tsarist square; on one side was a large brightly painted municipal building.

  ‘There it is!’ Oskar said, but he needn’t have told me for the place was draped with red flags and four armed soldiers stood proudly at the door.

  We queued for an hour before being granted an audience with a cheerless functionary. ‘We wish to return to Austria to fan the flames of revolution, comrade,’ I declared. For this noble purpose we were to receive special education, and the next thing we knew we were on a train bound for Moscow with hundreds of other POWs. This was the end of honesty with Oskar. From now on we had to lie, even to each other. From now on we would be Bolsheviks, committed communists, our very own thought police. There could be no cracks in the façade.

  We were housed in a crumbling utilitarian school on the outskirts of town and taught in our own languages. It began with a strident address from a skinny, clean-shaven youth called Pototsky who had been given the grand title of Commissar of Education.

  ‘Comrades,’ he yelled in a throaty cry, ‘the Bolsheviks have been true to their word. We have fought on your behalf and freed you from the tyranny of the tsarists. Now it is your turn to fight for the Bolsheviks. You are the future of the revolution in Europe. Your importance cannot be overemphasized. We will teach you how to emulate the success of Comrade Lenin in your own countries. You will educate the workers, organize the unions, and spread the communist manifesto so that the working people of Europe may unite against their bourgeois oppressors. You are the spark that will light the fire . . .’

  I glanced over at Oskar but he was too busy thinking peasant to honour me with a smile. When the speech was over he was quick on his feet to applaud.

  Our teachers, many of whom had been POWs themselves, were passionate, highly articulate men. Some, such as Bela Kun, went on to become famous revolutionaries in their own right. They started from first principles, taking nothing for granted. It began with a Marxist analysis of poverty and social injustice. Little by little they revealed how capitalism necessitated the perpetuation of a downtrodden underclass and how the mechanisms of state allowed wealth to be concentrated in the hands of the few. Their arguments seemed irrefutable and I was, by my own admission, a rather brilliant student. But although I could recite great tracts of Marx and Lenin by heart, my heart was never in it. I could not reconcile the rhetoric with what I saw on the street. Nationalization and forced appropriations merely created a new underclass who were not only poorer than their predecessors but persecuted, too. This blunt tyranny smacked of greed and revenge. A few powerful Bolsheviks policed everything, even our language and our thoughts. And party bosses never went hungry. No, I didn’t care much for the communists back then. Not like now. Now I know that only the communists have the courage to fight Hitler. The liberals and the democrats have let him in and only the communists can get him out.

  Oskar and I hardly spoke during this period, in fact Oskar hardly spoke to anyone; he kept his head down and his hands in his pockets. We were never alone, the school was full to overflowing; there were no moments for quiet reflection, no opportunities for private conversation. We were carefully scrutinized for our enthusiasm and dedication to the cause. Every speaker, no matter how tedious, was given a tumultuous ovation and as the Bolsheviks pushed eastward we cheered their every victory. Oskar was working so hard at hiding that his shoulders began to bow under the strain, as if he alone was bearing the entire burden of what he considered to be an unjust system. Whilst Oskar was slowly diminishing in stature, the once downtrodden POWs, the cannon fodder of the Central Powers, were gaining in confidence.

  When I did catch Oskar’s eye, he would stare at me quizzically as if he was wondering whether I had been converted to the cause yet; he was at once terrified that I would give his status away and grateful that I had not yet done so. Each time I stood up in class to answer a question he would grimace, sure that the day of his betrayal was closer.

  On New Year’s Eve, we were granted leave to celebrate. It was the only chance Oskar and I would have to talk in private. Moscow was heaving with drunken peasants and Red Army soldiers toasting the revolution. We wandered aimlessly through the snow-covered streets until we found a busy tavern. There we used our meagre ration money to buy a bottle of vodka. Oskar told me that despite his initial cynicism he was now a committed Bolshevik. I wasn’t sure whether this was what he wanted me to believe or whether it was the truth. If it was the trut
h I had to be careful; I didn’t want to be considered a traitor either and blow my chance of being sent home, so I pretended to be as committed as him. For an hour we both extolled the virtues of the revolution until Oskar, who had downed the lion’s share, was drunk and could lie no more. Something in him snapped and, like a dam bursting, three weeks of frustration poured out of him.

  ‘So what do you think of that bloody commy tsar of education Pototsky, then, huh? Weasel-faced, trumped-up buffoon, who does he think he is? Not fit to clean a latrine, let alone give us bloody history lessons. These twits are so full of themselves . . . give them a bit of power and they behave like asses.’ This from an Austrian officer! Oskar was shouting and I begged him to lower his voice but he was too far gone. ‘If only we hadn’t signed that damned treaty . . . we had them on the ropes . . . Christ, they’re fighting each other now . . . the Germans could have walked in here . . . would have knocked this town into shape . . . got rid of this rabble for starters . . . you know what we’re going to do, soldier . . . when we get back . . . you and me we’re going to get straight back in the army, Moritz, we’re going to obliterate Lenin and his cronies.’

  A burly man in a smock and braces sidled up to the bar behind Oskar.

  ‘Hold your tongue, Oskar,’ I warned.

  ‘How about it, Moritz, I’ll promote you . . . you’re a good man . . . you can be my lieutenant.’

  The burly man was watching us curiously.

  ‘I’m not interested in the army, I hate the army, I’ve learnt my lesson. Oh look, Oskar, we’re going to get some music,’ I said, desperately trying to change the subject. An accordionist and a balalaika player had entered the tavern and were making their way to the corner.

  ‘Do you know who I am, Moritz?’

  ‘I don’t want to know, now shut up.’

  ‘I’m a bloody . . .’

  ‘Come on, comrade, let’s dance.’ I pulled him off his stool but his legs buckled beneath him and he fell to the floor. The burly man immediately swooped down and pulled him to his feet and brought him back to the bar. The musicians launched into a popular folk song and the throng began to sway and sing.

  ‘Give my friends some vodka, comrade,’ the man called to the barman.

  ‘No thank you, we’ve had enough,’ I said.

  ‘No, I insist, it’s New Year’s Eve. Let’s drink together.’ Three vodkas appeared on the bar. ‘To the revolution,’ he yelled.

  ‘To the revolution,’ I repeated.

  Oskar didn’t say a word but downed his vodka in one gulp; his eyes were glazing over. The three of us sat in silence for several minutes watching the revellers.

  As midnight approached the jig grew more frenzied; outside jubilant soldiers fired their rifles in the street. I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to see a red-faced factory girl beckoning me on to the dance floor. She looked like a typical Slav, with a simple square face framed by long blond hair. ‘You look miserable,’ she slurred in my ear, ‘no one should be sad tonight. Come and dance.’ She took both my hands in hers and smiled. I shook my head and told her I was not a good dancer, but she wouldn’t take no for an answer and yanked me off my stool.

  ‘Don’t worry about your friend, tovarich,’ the burly man said, ‘I’ll look after him. Go and dance.’

  The girl dragged me into the midst of the whirling Russian dancers. She knew all the words to the songs and belted them out as we danced. We charged about the floor careering into other couples as we went. Through the mêlée I saw the man talking to Oskar and plying him with vodka. My head was light and I heard myself laughing. The tunes were getting faster, and she began to spin me around and around, quicker and quicker until we were too dizzy to stand and we fell in a heap on top of each other. We lay there for a moment in a clumsy caress. She was howling with laughter. I grabbed her in my arms and held her tight to my chest. So tight I almost squeezed the air from her lungs.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked breathlessly as my eyes welled with tears. I could find no words to describe what I was feeling; I had not touched a woman for four and a half years. Her breast heaved against mine, her damp hair clung to my sweaty forehead. I could feel her hot breath in my ear. I wanted it to last for ever. I wanted to love her. There awoke in me a carnal desire so deep that I could not fathom it. I forgot where I was and pressed my face against her cheeks like a kitten rubs up against its mother. She giggled and I took her head in my hands and kissed her passionately, not wanting ever to stop.

  The next thing I knew I was being kicked in the back. Before I could turn round a bearded hog of a man took hold of my hair and dragged me off the girl. He was calling her a cheating bitch. I scrambled to my feet and ploughed through the revellers. The man charged after me. I looked for Oskar but he was unconscious on the floor by the bar; his burly drinking companion had gone. I hurtled out of the door. My assailant caught up with me halfway down the empty street and we tussled in the snow. I don’t know which of us was more drunk, but we staggered about hurling ineffective punches, and slipping and sliding on the ice until the bells struck twelve and a volley of gunfire brought us both to a momentary standstill. A gang of off-duty Red Army guards came singing round the corner. ‘Long live the revolution and a happy New Year, comrades,’ they cheered.

  My attacker backed off. ‘Don’t come back or I’ll kill you,’ he hissed and sloped away.

  This transient embrace with a stranger, this meaningless moment of tenderness, was a catalyst to dread. My whole reason for living hung on one kiss in a forest in Poland. I had tramped the earth to be with my childhood sweetheart. But who was this Lotte, other than a fading memory? I had nailed my sense of self to a romantic illusion, and if this edifice in my mind was toppled what would be left of me? So much had happened in four years that there was nothing left of the boy who once walked the banks of the San. I would never be that boy again. I had just got drunk, kissed a Russian girl and fought with her boyfriend, and what shocked me now was that had I not been disturbed I would have let it go further. I might have woken up in some shabby apartment with the nameless girl at my side. More alarming still was that such incidents were now normal to me. My life was a cycle of violence, illness and fear. I lurched from moment to moment in a stupefying moral void. The one beacon of hope on which my survival rested, namely the resumption of a far-off teenage relationship, which, at its best, was no more than soft words and light promises, now seemed as absurd to me as the existence of God. I did not even know what had become of my saviour princess. What horrors might she have seen? What torments might have ravaged her? A horrible thought exploded inside me. What if Lotte were dead? What if I arrived in Ulanow after five years and discovered that she had been torn to pieces by the Cossacks or the Poles? What then? Could I bear the truth after so long? For years I had been drawn inexorably towards my home, and that night I felt repulsed by it. I wandered the streets in a blind panic, sobering with each step. I was terrified of going home.

  When I got back Oskar was nowhere to be found. He showed up in the morning pale and shivering, with little memory of the previous night. We were all still a little groggy when we were called to an impromptu meeting in the lecture theatre. There were two armed Red guards waiting for us. The diminutive Commissar Pototsky stormed in, scowling. ‘Comrades, we have a traitor in our midst.’

  The students looked around at each other aghast. I felt my stomach tighten. Oskar sat with his shoulders hunched, staring at the floor. Pototsky walked over to him. ‘Here sits a Lieutenant-General of the Austrian Army, Baron Oskar von Helsingen. Let me tell you about this man, comrades. He owns an estate in the Tirol and a mansion in Vienna. Is that right, Oskar?’

  ‘Yes,’ he whispered.

  ‘You were captured at Przemyśl, were you not?’

  Oskar nodded.

  ‘We know all about you, Oskar. No one can hide from the state. Stand up.’

  Oskar slowly stood up.

  ‘What do you have to say for yourself?’

  ‘Nev
er trust a peasant,’ he said, staring at me full of rancour. I bit my tongue. I dared not protest.

  Pototsky gave a nod and one of the guards stepped forward and coolly shot Oskar in the head.

  And I am ashamed to admit, Fischel, that your father was the first on his feet to cheer and applaud.

  With our indoctrination complete, we were sent to the borders of our own countries and to our dismay we were not allowed entry. New countries had sprung up. What was once part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire was now Czechoslovakia or Poland or Hungary and these new states refused to accept responsibility for any POWs. We brave soldiers were suddenly treated like immigrants. They were paranoid about being infiltrated by agents of communism. Many prisoners were left stranded on the borders for over a year, especially those of us without papers. I was lucky because in June 1919, more than two years after escaping Siberia, I received a visa to my own country. I had been waiting in Minsk for only a month.

  But despite our humiliation at the border, the Poles still wouldn’t let us go home. They took us all for communists and sent us to a special camp for re-education. It really was just a question of time. I felt so close to Lotte now that I could almost feel her soft skin, but I admit that as much as I longed for her with every bone in my body, I was also terrified. I was having nightmares, terrible nightmares of arriving at her door and finding her with a child in her arms and a man at her shoulder. She stares blankly at me, no sign of recognition in her eyes. She turns to her husband and asks for some money to give to the beggar. I had survived all this time solely on the strength of a dream and now I feared that the dream would soon be shattered and a much harsher reality would emerge. Did I still love her? I thought so but, in a way, the logic of love is a bit like the logic of the queue. When you have waited so long there is no way you are going to walk away unless the shop closes and the door is slammed in your face. Did Lotte still love me? Sometimes it is easier not to know and live with hope than it is to know and live with truth.