The Burning of the World

by Bela Zombory-Moldovan

  “That’s quite a tremor, sir. It’s the head wound that’s causing that.”

  I’d noticed myself that, especially when I turned in a certain way, the trembling in my lower arm turned into a positive shaking. If that was the worst of it . . . It would go away eventually. All that mattered for now was that, with each step, I was getting further and further from mortal danger, and for a few weeks, at least, I would return to life. After that, what would be, would be.

  We crossed a bridge over some little stream. A rickety structure: I was surprised that it took our weight. The sound of clean running water made me so thirsty that I yearned to lie down in it. I had no interest in eating, but oh, to drink, and drink, and keep drinking!

  “We’ll get to a larger settlement soon,” said the orderly. “There are troops stationed there, and we can get something to eat and drink. There’s a proper road from there that will take us to Lubaczow, if these nags can keep going. If not, we’ll get other horses.”

  The Ruthene carter watered the little horses from a pail. Each of them drank almost a full pail. Where they put it all is a mystery.

  With the cart stopped, my ears rang dully in the sudden silence, as if I were hearing everything from under water. My throat was so dry I could barely swallow.

  “I think I have a bit of fever,” I told the orderly.

  “That’s very likely, but please try to hold out until we get to Lubaczow. I have no drugs or dressings here. Try to sleep.”

  Sleep would be a fine thing, but I had to treat my head as if it were made of glass. Whatever I tried to rest my head on would shake about, and the pain made my eyes practically jump out my head. I tried resting my elbows on my knees and propping my chin on the palms of my hands, as we trundled down the hill. Ahead, and to our right, a larger settlement gradually came into view. The orderly said it was called Basznia.[4]

  A little further on, we did indeed join a relatively good, metaled road, and the cart no longer pitched about so much. There were woods to one side of the road as we got nearer the settlement. At the edge of the woods stood a guard post—the first troops we had seen on our journey so far.

  The commanding officer appeared, and there was some discussion. The cart waited. Those who had been on foot sat down; they were exhausted by now. We could take a rest. They brought us food and drink, and checked my bandages at the aid point. But we could not spend much time here: the front was heading this way, and the last train from Lubaczow would leave at sunset.

  We were directed to the kitchen to wait. A cow was just being slaughtered, five or six paces away from me: a small, dun-colored, peasant’s milch cow. It was the first time I had seen this done. One man twisted a rope around its horns, passed it through a pulley fixed to the ground, and hauled the animal’s head right down to its forelegs. Another man took an axe and, with all his strength, struck the cow’s forehead. There was a crunching of bone, guttural grunting, the legs quivered, and the unfortunate creature slumped to the ground. It was all done with the indifference of someone swatting a fly. It was really just a matter of scale.

  A medic examined us quickly; he tightened a bandage here and there and gave me three aspirins. He shook his head a little at the man shot in the lung.

  After a short wait, Jóska brought a full mess tin of soup with some beef and marrowbone in it. Presented like this, these ingredients no longer seemed like the remains of a living creature, but merely sustenance. Jóska had shrewdly asked for this serving in my name, knowing that he would end up eating three-quarters of it himself, as indeed he did, in addition to his own ration. I told him to find a bottle and fill it with water.

  A medical adjutant—from a battalion of the Twentieth Nagykanisza Regiment—came over.

  “There are no more horses. For two days now, there’s been a torrent of wounded, retreating troops, and Russian prisoners heading for Lubaczow. The horses are all being used to transport the wounded. Any other livestock is needed for provisioning.”

  We were the last, which was why we hadn’t been picked up. Lubaczow was the last stop now, but that was packed; people were being moved on from there by train. There was an abandoned station at Basznia; that was full too, of those who couldn’t go any further. We should go there: they were expecting some old rolling stock to be shunted up from Lubaczow, and we might get to Lubaczow on that.

  So we set off with the two exhausted jades. We just needed to make it as far as Basznia! The man who had been shot in the lung had been taken off the cart. He was dead. They draped his cape over him. They would bury him later.

  The little horses were reluctant to get moving again. Their noses hung down almost to ground. Everyone felt a burning anxiety, because if we didn’t make it to Lubaczow, our fates would be sealed: we would be taken prisoner, or worse.

  We managed to struggle on as far as the station at Basznia. Wounded men lay crowded on the platform; plenty of malingerers, too. There were goods wagons of every description standing on the tracks—but no engine.

  As we clambered down from the cart, my right knee buckled under me like a worn-out folding rule, and I would have collapsed like a sack if Jóska hadn’t caught me. We shuffled our way onto the crowded platform where, in a corner, I slumped back against a wall. After a day of being shaken and jolted, it was a heavenly respite.

  The awareness of my own helplessness bore down on me like a terrible weight, alongside my impatient longing to get away. For a moment, I was gripped by a subject: a writhing mass of wounded men, sustained by the hope of escape, awaiting their salvation. In this case, the savior would be some worn-out engine and a few shovelfuls of coal.[5]

  Every minute, some new rumor or counter-rumor—many of them born of wishful thinking—went round.

  A railwayman came running down the platform, shouting out: “Everyone into the wagons on track four, quick as you can! Let the seriously wounded on first!”

  A terrible stampede began. Human wrecks, the bloodstained, the helpless, the broken pushing each other aside to save themselves. Jóska wrenched me to my feet and I threw my right arm around his neck. He dragged me off towards an empty wagon and practically threw me up onto it. I crawled on all fours into a corner. Out of breath, he grinned at me. We’re all seriously wounded in here, aren’t we? Of course we are! Just try leaving us off! Outside the wagon men were shouting, crying out, and cursing in a variety of languages.

  A shout of joy went up: the engine’s here! An ancient contraption, coughing and wheezing, rushed past us, great clouds of smoke pouring up from its tall chimney, on its way to the rear to be turned round. Its proportions were rather like those of the little horses that had drawn our cart. Never mind! It has wheels, and it moves!

  At last, a jolt, and the whole sorry procession began slowly to move, clattering over the points and snaking out onto the line towards Lubaczow. No one knew whether we would have to change there, or whether this train would take us on towards Jaroslav; but we were filled with hope.

  A bit of straw under me, and my joy would have been complete; but I did my best to stretch out my legs, lie back on my cape, and fold my arms to support my throbbing head. An immeasurable sense of calm came over me, undisturbed by the moaning, coughing, and talking of the others in the wagon.

  I’m on my way home!

  Jóska was shaking me. “We’re in Lubaczow. We’re being told to wait here until we can find out whether we’re going on, or whether we have to get onto a different train. They say the local nurses are distributing charity for the wounded men. I’ll get out and see what I can bring.”

  I had a sudden thought that he might want to run off; but that would make no sense, because he would be fine as long as he was with me, whereas if he were caught doing a bunk, he’d be in trouble. He was gone for quite a while, though, and I began to feel uneasy; but finally he reappeared with a smile on his face, pockets bulging and a bundle of straw under his arm. God bless him!

  He stuffed the straw under me and laid out ham, sausage, fresh bread, a small
bottle of pálinka, cigarettes, and goodness knows what else, upon which we positively threw ourselves. The greatest gift for me, though, was the straw. I stretched myself out and even pulled off my boots for the first time in three days. Then I fell headlong into the oblivion of sleep.

  Now and again, I awoke, and at Jaroslav I even looked out of the open door of the wagon. There must have been an army provisioning base here. On the way to the front, I had seen sacks of flour in vast quantities piled up into stacks, like cordwood, on land next to the station. Now, a couple of skinny horses were chewing on sacking, their whole faces, up to the ears, white with flour.

  Sleep.

  Rzesow. A large station. Jóska shaking me back to life. “We have to change here.” To make movement easier, we took with us only what we had on us. We left the food. We could get more.

  I was somewhat unsteady getting off the train. Jóska propped me up from the right. A guard on the platform directed me to the station command post. I reported there and was examined by the doctor. He removed the dried-on dressing and said something about infection.

  “If you get to Budapest, go to the garrison hospital. You need to be X-rayed to see if there’s any damage to the motor centers.”

  “My right hand shakes when I move a certain way. My right leg buckles under me sometimes.”

  “Yes, that’s related to the impact injury from the shot, but it’s not serious. From what I can see, you should recover from that.”

  I was issued with a travel warrant to Budapest. Nothing wrong with Jóska: he was told to report to regimental headquarters in Veszprém. The warrant was for Neu-Sandez—Eperjes—Kassa—Miskolc—Budapest.

  “I’ll take the bandages off so that you have a bit of a wash.”

  “I have no towel, or soap, or toothbrush, or clean clothes.”

  The doctor spoke a few words to a nurse. “But don’t get the wound wet.”

  I was shown to a bathroom and supplied with all that I needed. A wash! Could this be true? And clean clothing! I was given that too. The undershorts were too large and I had to hold them up. Never mind!

  “Don’t be fussy, Ensign. You’re lucky to have these.” I would get Jóska to re-sew the button once we were on the train.

  “They’ll give you something to eat at the field kitchens at the stations.”

  It had been two weeks since I had last looked in a mirror, and I was somewhat taken aback by what I saw, even though the mirror had lost most of its silvering. There was not much I could do about the blood-matted hair around the wound. The blood dried into my centimeter-long stubble was blackish-purple, a dark caput mortuum.[6] There were also red patches the size of ten- and twenty-fillér coins at the roots of my beard. They itched abominably, and I had been scratching them absent-mindedly, but had not seen them until now. Two or three days, and I would be in Budapest. I wouldn’t report to the hospital straight away. The family doctor could look after me.

  Now to board a waiting passenger train, and sleep. I would be going home by the same route that I had come. How different things had been then! Neu-Sandez[7] decked out with flags and flowers, bands playing, crowds of the curious, well-wishers’ gifts in heaps. Ave, Caesar, morituri te salutant.[8] The champagne had flowed. Now, with fresh bandages, I made no impression, even though my head was swathed in them. When I had gone, bloodily, to report, the crowd had parted ahead of me, and a young girl had stared at me aghast, her hand clapped over her mouth and her face frozen. The picture made such a vivid impression on me that I could still draw it. Now, with only my bloodstained coat to hint at what I had gone through, no one was in any hurry to let me through. I had lost my martial glamour.

  A passenger train was waiting and we pushed our way onto an elderly, but decent, first-class carriage—a triple-axle side-door unit—reserved for officers, where we laid claim to half of a compartment. I stretched myself out and, minutes later, was asleep.

  It was nighttime when I awoke with a start. The phosphorescent hands of my loyal friend showed one-thirty on the dial. The train was crawling along. With my forehead pressed against the window, I could just make out the hazy outlines of great mountains, amongst which our engine panted along endless curves. Dear Lord, we were already in the Tatra![9] We must be getting close to the Hungarian border; perhaps we had already crossed it.

  Jóska was lying on his back on the floor and making snoring noises not unlike those that came from the engine.

  I got up and stuffed my cape under his head as a pillow. He gave a slightly dim-witted smile and promptly went back to sleep.

  I had started to find myself suddenly waking from sleep, gripped by the urge to escape from something or other and get somewhere or other, and it took a while for me to realize where I was. The slamming of a door would send a spasm through me, and I would jump to my feet, disorientated. A cigarette then calmed me down. Apart from that, I slept as if I had passed out.

  I sat for hours with my face pressed against the window’s glass, watching the passing scenery. A stream to the right and, to the left, the vague massing of huge mountains, like a stage set; all that was lacking was the Valkyries storming about the peaks. Above their summits, the sky was beginning to turn pale, defining the outlines of these colossal forms more distinctly against the background.

  Nature slumbered, seemingly indifferent. Everything moved forward in accordance with unchanging laws; sleeping or waking, every struggle, in accordance with its slow, organic, gradual, hidden evolutionary laws. Nature flowed on its course, impervious to the absurd behavior of men, their mutual slaughter and assorted acts of wickedness. The whole world was manifestly indifferent in the face of the life-and-death struggles of men: it neither took their side nor opposed them, but simply paid no attention. Let them get on with it. Let them reap what they sow.

  I awoke to find myself curled rigidly into a ball, my nose practically resting on my knees. I gathered up my cramped, numbed limbs and stretched myself out along the seat. Jóska snored on without interruption. Happy young lad, full of life. He’ll live: his wily brain will protect him from every threat.

  The train was racing downhill. It was getting light and the line was curving its way through beautiful countryside. We were in Hungary now. My home.

  I was startled awake by noise, the shrieking of brakes and a familiar cry: “Eperjes!”[10]

  Eperjes: the oft-repeated stories of my father’s youthful days here . . . Tears came to my eyes. I’m tired out. My nerves aren’t right. I lay still and pictured Budapest, my home. I had left another world behind there, a hundred years ago.

  I knew the way from here. Kassa,[11] where we would have to change trains; Miskolc,[12] from where I could send a telegram home. I’d be home by tomorrow morning at the latest.

  Jóska clambered to his feet, groaning noisily, clearing his throat, scratching himself, and the rest of it. Naturalia non sunt turpia.[13] Then he gathered himself together and jumped off the train in search of some breakfast and cigarettes. It was a large station with a military command post, and there would be charity volunteers. Minutes later, he was back, with a load of cold cuts and a fistful of cigarettes.

  My wound had stopped hurting; only the dressing tugged at it. My right leg was still behaving oddly. I felt unsure of it and hardly dared to put my weight on it. It kept buckling under me. I had stopped paying it much attention. It was better than being dead. It wouldn’t stop me from painting. If only! The future was still a big question mark. The war was still getting bigger.

  An “unfit for service” came past; we exchanged greetings and he handed a newspaper in through the open window. Report from the battlefield! Glorious weather! Battle-readiness of our troops unbreakable! They await the Russian attack from new positions, etcetera. It had evidently been composed by the armchair generals[14] of the Pest coffeehouses. I leafed through the paper, looking mostly at the headlines. How alien it was! How far removed these people were from the agonies, the mortal fear as shells explode around you, the marches that exhaust to th
e limits of consciousness, the mangled dead, their open eyes staring into oblivion. Yes, far away, and with no conception of the reality of war. Of being unwashed, with clothes soaked for weeks in the tired body’s every humid exhalation, and so filthy that they stick to the skin; of lice; or of when a man gets scabies and itches night and day, scratching his tormented body until it is bloody.

  The editorial and literary tables of Pest’s coffeehouses were surely, even now, untouchable; “essential occupations.” Or, if the worst came to the worst, they would see about positions in the military press office.

  The New York Café: the lair of the “Ady-ites,” where all the prattlers gathered round to worship the master.[15] I had heard that Ady had done everything—apparently, he even went to see the prime minister—to avoid the overwhelming terror of battle. Festering in the coffeehouses all night is undoubtedly preferable to a nice little bullet through the gut: leave that to others. In his poems, he sings of death, whilst delegating its practical implementation. Such exceptional people were entitled to stay at home instead, and rot morale.

  The company at the Fészek coffeehouse must be there too. Teplánszky in full voice, Egry[16] playing chess or draughts, then at midnight they would all file out to the amusement park to play at hoopla or some other foolery. A rum crew! I don’t know where Teplánszky found them all. With most of them it’s hard to tell who or what they are. The sculptors, at least—Károly Székely,[17] Péter Gindert[18]—come from the Epreskert artists’ colony.[19] But those who are supposed to be painters? Even among these, there are some who are “of positive value,” from Benczúr’s[20] circle: Mányai,[21] Mozárt Rottmann,[22] Emil Papp,[23] or one or two of Tépi’s intelligent teacher friends: Heiman, Kornis, and Molnár. But these only come in the afternoons. Egry regards them as philistines and snipes at them fatuously. Heiman fires back: “Seems that you and teachers have never got on. You didn’t get to school much.”

  I wouldn’t be going to see them, I thought. Not for the time being, anyway. They would receive me with cynicism, with something along the lines of “the enlightened anti-militarist always finds the hidden way, so that he can get out of this mess.”