by Alma Boykin
Why do the Russians hate Jews so much? And how many have they run out of Lemberg? Well, that was not his problem at the moment. Finding quarters and starting reconnaissance of the area, getting patrols assigned, and trying to warm up were his immediate problems.
For the next week István alternated compiling patrol reports with riding. The weather improved, if above freezing and grey was an improvement. The cavalry scouts got close enough to Lemberg to see the citadel rising above the city. They didn’t try to find the Russians’ outer line, but they did confirm that the bridges across the streams north of the city remained intact. And guarded.
István peered through his field glasses at the bored-looking Russian soldiers huddled in their greatcoats, standing by a fire, a hundred meters or so from the southern end of the first bridge—a bridge that should have been destroyed. Gaps in the trees along the river gave glimpses of grey water and long, flat marshes that stretched north around the road. The Russians appeared more concerned about staying warm than guarding anything. István studied the scene, taking mental notes as he worked up and down, until he found the Russians’ rifles, leaning haphazardly against a shed on the opposite side of the road from the fire.
“Can we capture the bridge, sir?” He could barely hear the junior’s words over the sound of the river and his own heartbeat.
He wanted to, but their orders didn’t allow them to. “We could, but not now, lieutenant.” The sector staff did not want the Russians learning more than they had to. “We are a scouting patrol, not a raid in force.” Alas.
They returned to Jaworów and took advantage of the medicinal sulfur springs before reporting their observations. Scheele ran a finger along the scar that ran from his ear to disappear into his collar. “That is . . .” He seemed to think for a minute or two. “Is curious. Because the reports from south and east of Lemberg are of active Russian patrols and tight watches on the bridges and rail lines. I don’t doubt your observation, but that’s odd.”
“Perhaps we just happened on to the two laziest privates in the Russian army, under the command of the drunkest sergeant, sir?”
Scheele’s eyebrows rose, then fell. “Hmm, perhaps. Well, we’ll know better what is going on soon. A Christmas offensive would not surprise me, since the Russians want Krakow so much. Or a false retreat, to draw us out and then try and destroy us like they did Napoleon.”
Behind him, Lt. Merkl’s stifled laugh turned into a coughing fit. “Your pardon, sirs.”
Except we are not invading Russia, and our supply lines are not vulnerable to the Cossacks. Otherwise it would be a splendid plan. István did not discount the thought entirely, though. Between the imperial army and the Russians, there’d be scarcely anything edible or valuable left in eastern Galicia by Easter.
Which raised another question, István thought as he changed and dressed for supper. When was Barbara due? It had to be soon, very soon. He needed to get back to Przemysl so he could get any messages she or his father sent about her condition. He wanted to see his son. And he needed to contact the Power, to see how the land fared.
The Power in Galicia? István puzzled over what he’d sensed as he finished shaving. He felt it, but the creature had turned inward. It allowed him to “touch” its mind, for lack of a better term, but did not even acknowledge the touch. It lay still, not exactly dormant, not dead, but—well, he didn’t have words to describe the sense he’d gotten. He wanted to go home.
This was not the war he’d trained for, not the war they were supposed to be fighting. War was fast, and sharp, and clean. Not this cold, wet, daily push that ground on his nerves and left him living in a grey fog splashed with red. István wanted the army to shove the Russians back to their den, teach them a long-overdue lesson about the strength of the Empire, and go home. They’d done the same to the Turks, and the Turks had learned, after all.
István sat in the borrowed office, compiling reports and trying to put together a coherent description of what the regiment had found, when he heard the phone ringing. Someone answered it, and he heard murmurs, a long pause, more murmurs, and a voice calling, “I need Karl von Worter.” That’s the signal for someone with the most recent codebooks. I wonder what is going on? He’d find out soon enough, so he returned to his own task of writing everything out by hand. To his annoyance, despite government orders, no one in city hall had possessed a German language typewriter. Or they had hidden them so carefully that they couldn’t find them, which, given the machinations of the Polish nationalists in this region, could certainly have happened. István stopped long enough to wiggle blood back into his fingers. He needed a cigarette desperately. I wonder how well the Polish nationalists in Lemberg fared once the Russians arrived? They hate the empire, but they loathe the Russians even more.
Well, the Russians had begun venturing farther out from Lemberg, in the north was well as the south. Yesterday they’d fired on one of the imperial patrols, although how they thought they could hit three horsemen with one of those small fortress guns the Austrians couldn’t begin to guess. “Maybe they assumed we’d be so terrified by the sound that we’d stay still?” the sergeant leading the patrol had said. “The shell landed half a kilometer short, kicking up mud and not much else, sir.”
István heard multiple pairs of boots hurrying past the door of the office he was working in. Whatever had been in the phone call must have been important. One of the orderlies pushed the whitewashed door open and poked his head in. “Colonel wants to see all staff officers in his office, my lord major.”
“Very good.” István capped the inkwell, tidied the papers, turned them over to discourage the casual visitor, walked three doors up the hall, climbed the stairs, and turned back two doors to what had been the mayor’s office. Col. Marbach stood with his back to the door, hands clasped behind him, looking out the window. Someone had stoked the blue-and-green-tiled stove so hot that István wondered why it didn’t glow red. He took a place near the stove, enjoying the heat pouring out of it. Felix trotted in, not quite out of breath, chased by Lt. Col. Scheele and two others. Major Hlubolka, the new supply chief, panted as he arrived, peering through cold-fogged glasses.
“Shut the door.” Hlubolka did as ordered and Marbach turned to face them. A dark fire snapped in his eyes. “We are returning to Przemsyl. There are five Russian corps approaching from the north and east of Lemberg, and probably a sixth along the road from the border to Jaroslau. It seems the Russians have decided to launch that offensive the French have been begging for, except against us instead of the Germans.”
“That’s not fair.”
“In December? They are insane.”
“Of course they are, they are Russians. They think this is 1812, not 1914.”
Felix leaned over and whispered, “So much for Christmas leaves.”
István did not trust himself to answer.
Col. Marbach let the babble die. “We are being drawn back to Przemysl. Brudermann will be remaining in place south of Lemberg, at least for now, to protect the oilfields and to act as a block if the Russians try to take the railway and push to the Carpathians again. The High Command suspects that the Tsar’s generals need a major victory, so the Tsar can show it to the French and British, and that Przemysl will be offered as a Christmas present along with Krakow.” Marbach bared his teeth. “The Tsar may well find that this egg is a little too expensive, even for his tastes.”
István smiled in return, as did Felix.
“So, we are returning to the fortress. No, I am not entirely pleased at the news, but we will likely be tasked with harrying the Russians once we get closer. Prepare accordingly. You will have your individual orders in two hours.”
“I wonder if the Russians will come back through Jaworów?” István said as he and Felix left the office.
“Probably. For a group that are supposedly liberating their Ruthene and Polish brothers from the tyranny of the Habsburgs, they don’t seem very, hmm, careful.”
“I’ve yet to read o
f a careful army at war.”
Felix gave him a look suggesting that István knew exactly what he meant. “Do you suppose the Russians have left any forces on the German border?”
“It does not seem as if they have, but,” István tried to remember. He stopped at the foot of the stairs and stepped out of the way. Someone had rolled up the dark-colored carpet that usually covered the wood and left it leaning against the white-plastered wall. “In theory they outnumbered us, assuming the Tsar could muster every able bodied conscript on the records.” Which was as likely as strawberries in January. “But at some point he would run out of food and weapons, since the Russians have nothing like the Skoda and Steyr works, do they?”
Felix played with one end of his mustache. “Tula, the Tula metal works, but that’s all I can think of. They copy everything from the French and British anyway.”
Well, that wasn’t István’s problem to worry about—his concern was getting his men back to Przemsyl and himself to Kassa. Or Budapest, if the House had decided it would be better for Barbara to be farther from the border. And he had reports to finish compiling before he got his papers in order and had Andrej begin packing for them.
Andrej had proven to be an excellent servant—far better than Baltazar, God rest his soul. István crossed himself out of habit, ignoring the twinge of guilt that came whenever he remembered all the uncharitable thoughts he’d had about the poor man. Well, that’s why I sent a little extra with the letter to his mother and sister, after all, he reminded himself.
A week later, István stood in his stirrups, breath steaming in the December air, and stared at the army approaching the eastern outposts of the Przemsyl fortress complex. The hamlet of Hurko, now deserted, stood between the Hurko outpost and the San River to the north. Part of the outer ring of small fortified outposts, Hurko covered the gap between the road and railway leading to Lemberg, and the San River. István swept the scene to the east with his field glasses and wondered where the Russians had found so many men. They had not begun shelling the fortress city, but would soon, he assumed, and so István sat again, not wanting to attract some gunner or scout’s attention.
“I was wrong.”
Lt. Merkl settled his unruly, scrubby local horse, then said, “How so, sir?”
“I thought the Russians would not attack Przemysl. I was wrong.” Why here? Because we are weak, because the Germans slaughtered them in Tannenberg, because they failed to knock the Germans back farther from Warsaw, because they need an easy victory to show the French and English that they are doing something. Or so he supposed. Inspection finished, István turned the replacement horse that he’d decided to call Braun around and began the ride back into the shelter of the inner defensive lines.
The sight of the Russians brought the red battle fog to István’s mind. He was a cavalry officer, damn it, not one of the infantry moles. He rode at the enemy, cutting them down, charging across the battlefield with flash and glory. That was his calling, what he’d been born to do! Not sit and be pounded by artillery, waiting for the enemy to make the first move. He’d read about sieges—every Hungarian child did. He’d memorized whole pages of Stars of Eger, Gárodnyi Géza’s novel of the battle in 1552. Let the Russians come close enough that he could ride them down and then he’d be happy. Not camped kilometers away, throwing artillery rounds at random and hoping to hit something. Which described Russian marksmanship in general, István reminded himself. They won by volume, not accuracy.
Braun’s hoofs clopped on the cold dirt. The weather had settled into a dull dampness, not raining or snowing, just flat and grey. After fall’s rain it was a blessing, as long as the lull lasted. It would change, no doubt, once true winter set in. Already the Carpathians and Tatras, and Alps, wore white blankets down to their knees, István knew. He wanted to get back to the House’s territory, to Nagy Matra, to the soft dirt and sour smell of the hunting trails, to the winter party invitations of the social season in Budapest and Esztergom and Vienna. And to his wife and son. Braun stumbled, dragging István back to the present. “Now what?”
The horse settled down. Beside him, Merkl turned in the saddle, glancing back. “Rut in the road, probably sir, and he’s getting lazy-footed.”
“Well, he’d better not be going lame, or I’ll write him up for malingering.” The men with him smiled a little at the thought.
Two days later, after an offer of surrender had been made and rejected, the shelling began, along with the first attacks against the outer perimeter.
Despite his fears, István and some of his men rode out, part of the groups assigned on rotation to protect the approaches from the south of the fortress complex. They watched from the road and railway, along the curve between outposts V Grochowce and IIIa north of the now empty hamlet of Hermanowice. The Russians seemed determined to pound the Przemysl into dust—or, rather, into a mud paste—if they couldn’t starve the men out. Since almost 60,000 men now crowded the complex, István put money on the latter. Especially once word began to spread that pestilence had also retreated into the fort. Everyone knew that the Russians had brought cholera with them. István looked out at the hills, now stripped of their trees by the devouring armies, and shivered a little. At least their winter uniforms had arrived, and the Russians could not completely invest the fortress city. They had to watch their own flanks.
Although General Brudermann’s forces had kept the railway to the oilfields open, General Winter controlled the Carpathian Passes. István had always looked at the Matra and Carpathian Ranges as a protective wall. Now they locked him away from his home, with a little help from the Russians. The guns pounded and the infantry attacked the perimeter posts, using the grey misty weather to sneak closer before rushing forward. The Austrians watched carefully, low on ammunition for everything until the next train could fight its way in. The Russians spent bullets like bad coins, the Austrians guarded theirs like a widow with her last coruna.
The December days faded into each other. The Russians could not crack Przemysl or completely encircle it, but nether could the imperial army break out, not completely. Russian infighting kept them divided, while the Austrians needed the Germans to draw off some of the sheer mass of Russian troops lapping like a smelly, wool-covered sea around the city. Artillery pounded, the great Russians guns outmatching all but the Austrians’ heavy mortars. Eventually the Russians had to run out of shells, István hoped.
He had been sent back out to get some information for Col. Marbach when the unthinkable happened. The Russian guns thundered all at once, from due south of where he walked. István ducked, trying to get cover in a shallow ditch. The loudest sound he’d ever heard smashed his ears and something hit him, like a wave crashing against a rock in an ocean storm, knocking the air from his lungs. Pressure swept him backwards and everything turned black.
When the light returned, it brought a ringing sound—buzzing and ringing both. He felt someone shaking him, and each shake sent waves of pain through his upper body. He tried to open his eyes. The left one worked, but the right only showed red. István wiped at it, but his arm did not want to obey. An infantry soldier, Croat by the looks of him, mouthed something that István couldn’t hear over the roaring ringing in his ears. Then someone else grabbed his arm and pain drowned out everything, followed by merciful darkness again.
István woke again, to pain. He bit his tongue to stop a scream. Dear holy Lady, Queen of Mercy, please intercede for me. Please, God, may everything still be attached and work, Please. I will make pilgrimage on my bare feet, O most merciful Lord, please. His right arm and shoulder hurt and his head alternated pounding and swelling until the skin could barely hold it, then shrinking until it compressed his brain into nothing, then expanding again. It hurt when he breathed. He did not want to open his eyes, but did. The ceiling rippled, then steadied, and he heard the sound of voices, and screams that faded into muttering. István flexed the fingers on his left hand. They worked. He tried his right hand. The hand hurt terribly, but
he could feel the digits move. His toes and feet also moved when ordered. He hurt, he felt weak, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, and the smells did not bear thinking about because he knew them for blood, shit, and death.
“You are awake at last, my lord major,” a too-cheerful voice said. István turned his head a hair’s width to the left to see a round man in civilian clothes under a bloody apron standing beside his cot. “Can you hear me?”
“Yes,” István croaked.
The man waved a stubby finger across István’s face. “Follow it with your eyes, please, my lord major.” He did, but it made his head hurt. “Very good, very good indeed. And I see that you can move your hand and wrists. Your right arm is broken in two places, and you suffered a scalp laceration and concussion. The aid men thought the shell fragment had gone into the bone, but, as always, head wounds look worse than they are.”
What about the others who’d been with him? “What, the men, with me?”
The doctor shook his head. “You worry about you for now, my lord major.”
István did not like the sound of those words, but could not muster the strength or concentration to ask more. The doctor spoke to someone else, an orderly or aid, and continued on.
Another day and night passed before István could even sit up. Andrej assisted the hospital orderlies in getting his master cleaned and fed. They heard more shells booming, and István tried twice to dive under the bed when the explosions came. But only twice, unlike some poor souls in the ward. After another week, he could stand and walk, but not easily, and the doctors sent him to what had been a private home within the town to recover more there.
His body started to heal, but something felt wrong inside his head. István did not trust himself. His shields felt intact, and he could hold his most human appearance, but it taxed him. And his feelings remained almost beyond his own control. He fought to stay calm, to hide the swells of anger, and rage that swept through him, as well as fear, hysterical joy, and a manic laughter that plummeted into despair in an instant. His body obeyed his commands albeit slowly, but his mind balked like a stubborn horse.
