“The two sentries you saw are there only during the day-time so that the ravens should not get at them, for there are lots of ravens hereabouts—lots. At night we withdraw them, for of course the ravens do not hunt in the dark. At first the order was they were to hang only three days, but later His Excellency, in view of the numerous cases occurring, decreed that all hanged should remain there until further orders.”
Bologa had not noticed the sentries, and he now only noticed for the first time the gap in the man’s mouth. The voice sounded to him totally unknown and seemed to be issuing from a damp underground hole. Every word was spoken clearly, and Bologa wondered how the fellow could speak so calmly, as if he were reading out of a book. All at once he felt an overpowering need to speak himself, and he stammered hoarsely:
“Horrible!”
The sergeant-major did not catch what he said, and stared with wide eyes at Apostol, who, furious now, yelled so piercingly that even the chauffeur looked round a moment:
“Horrible!”
“Horrible.… I understand!” answered the startled sergeant-major, his smile gone, as he quickly turned his head away.
As soon as he was left to himself the Forest of the Hanged again sprang up before Apostol’s eyes. But now they seemed to be all the same man, and in the eyes of all blazed a strange courage which reminded him of the flame in the eyes of the men going over the top. Apostol shuddered. “The same man, hanged innumerable times as an endless protestation.” And all at once he said to himself: “It’s Svoboda … his eyes …” As he thought this, he remembered with torturing clearness how he had helped to condemn the Czech, he remembered his pride at being chosen for the honour of sitting on the court martial, he recalled how, from excess of zeal, he had mixed himself in what had not really been his job, and had given a hand at getting things ready for the execution—he had even tested the rope to see if it were strong enough—he could now feel in the palms of his hands the rough touch of the rope.… And this remembrance was now turned into a feeling of shame and regret, and he felt as poignantly remorseful as if he were standing before God on the day of the Last Judgment. The strange feeling lasted only a second, but it seemed to reveal unpenetrated depths, where seethed explanations of all the mysteries of life.
And then the ghostly vision of hanged men disappeared abruptly and a great peace descended upon Apostol. His eyes saw again the mountains and valleys and sky. Above the swish of the furious car he could hear clearly the rustling of the young beech leaves and the dry crackling of the fir needles in the distance. The brooding green of the forests blended harmoniously with the bluey-white of the ether.
1 The footgear worn by many peasants, a sort of leather sandals, strapped up the leg and with long toes, curling right over the instep.
IX
The car drew up sharply before a large courtyard with open gate. Bologa jumped out and waited for a moment for the sergeant-major, who was saying something to the chauffeur. They entered together and the car drove off.
Two large, old houses bordered the courtyard. The one on the right, white-washed recently, with a little flower garden in front of it, had about five rooms. Three of them were occupied by General Karg, and in the two remaining back ones lived the proprietor, the burgomaster of the village. The house on the left belonged to the schoolmaster, who had been killed the year before in Italy. He had been married to the burgomaster’s sister. The widow, with her five children, had been obliged to move to the house of a relative because the headquarters offices had been installed in her house. Originally the courtyard had been partitioned by a wooden paling which the soldiers had used for fire-wood, so that now the well, with its sweep, stood out stark and alone like a menace. At the back newly erected buildings could be seen. A little nearer there was a garden, stretching as far as the slope of fir-trees, with plum-trees in flower. Before the coach-houses soldiers were busy washing down two motor-cars and a whole park full of motor-cycles. In the corridor and before the main entrance of the house on the left, soldiers of all units crowded round waiting for orders, and while they waited they pushed and jostled one another, laughing and talking in whispers, for the general allowed no noise whatever which might disturb his occupations.
Near the well with its sweep stood the military prosecutor of the division, talking with a civilian of about fifty or so, ruddy, well-built, kindly looking, dressed partly in peasant, partly in town garb. The corpulent, dark-moustached prosecutor approached Bologa, exclaiming in a relieved tone:
“Thank goodness, you’ve come, my dear fellow! At last! I am relieved of a terrible anxiety.… Imagine, a lieutenant on the court martial has fallen sick, and we could no longer function, although to-morrow we have a very grave matter to settle. His Excellency will not consent to our withdrawing officers from the front to complete the court. In fine, you can imagine what a terrible strain it has been for me!”
While shaking hands Apostol asked:
“Is that why the general wanted me?”
“Surely. Probably he wants to give you personal instructions, you know his way,” said the prosecutor, and continued with a fanaticism which contrasted unpleasantly with his corpulence: “We must wipe out treachery by every means in our power, Bologa! What is happening here is simply unheard of! Every movement of ours is known to the enemy the next day. Even our most secret plans are known to the enemy. Well, this can’t go on! Very important events are pending, and here we are surrounded by nothing but spies, as if we were in an enemy country. Of course my own conscience is clear! Long ago I did my duty and reported to His Excellency that there was no great ardour of patriotism round about here. His Excellency did not heed me. He trusted them. He said we were in our own country. Now here we are in our own country! No later than last night the gendarmes brought me twelve scoundrels collected from the forests behind the front. Twelve! What do you say to that? A nice number, eh? I was just telling the burgomaster how indignant I felt. An ant-heap of traitors!”
Apostol Bologa interrupted him irritably:
“Why can’t you people leave me alone, captain? Why do you worry me?”
The burgomaster nodded approvingly, somewhat encouraged. But the prosecutor became angry and answered indignantly:
“Yes, of course, you all talk like that and hold back, as if the court martial were something … something disgraceful! You don’t realize that at bottom all your bravery is dependent on us. The war is not won merely with guns and hate, sir! In olden times, perhaps! To-day the brain does more than the arm. It would not be at all bad for you others to grasp what immense services this department is rendering to the country, it would not be bad at all! Only the mentality of you others is responsible for the fact that this division has no permanent court martial, as is decreed by regulations, and that we are compelled to lasso members in order to form one each time there is a case to try! The scarcity of officers is no valid excuse. If every officer worked as I do, then there would not be a lack of officers for so necessary an institution as a court martial to a division. Why, I am the prosecutor, the examining magistrate, and the judge advocate of the court martial all in one! Naturally I have to work till my eyes drop out. Let the others do as I do! For let me tell you, boys, there can be no victory if there is no court martial!”
The prosecutor had been a captain in the regulars, and in order to escape having to go to the front had persuaded himself that his services were the decisive factor in the war. He was terrified of death, and the sound of guns frightened him so much that he had to stop up his ears. He always thought that headquarters were placed much too near the front, and he devised special subterranean holes in which he could hide from enemy aeroplanes. Nevertheless, he considered himself a hero, and had an almost daring contempt for the men in the trenches. Now, catching sight of the ashen-faced sergeant-major behind Bologa, and noticing that Bologa was examining attentively the houses and scenery with the obvious intention of not listening to him any longer, the prosecutor called out importantly and signific
antly:
“Now then, sergeant-major, to work! There is no rest for us! Such is our fate! There are still a few examinations we have to take down, and there are the briefs to be finished off, for to-morrow is an important day.”
He glanced disdainfully at Bologa and went off hurriedly towards the house on the left, his paunch wobbling before him, and closely followed by the faithful sergeant-major.
Apostol gave a relieved sigh. Then after a moment he asked the burgomaster, who didn’t quite know what to do:
“Is the general here? Perhaps you could …”
“He is asleep,” answered the burgomaster quickly. “He always rests two or three hours after his midday meal. But I expect he’ll soon wake, as it is getting late.”
While Bologa was making up his mind to hunt for the adjutant, the grave-digger Vidor came in at the gate. Seeing Apostol, the grave-digger’s face darkened.
“My goodness, sir, what are you doing here?”
“On duty,” murmured Apostol. “They’ve summoned me to the court martial.”
“You don’t say so?” came from the horrified grave-digger. “You? But what for?”
“To act as a member of the court,” said Bologa strangely.
Vidor crossed himself three times. But the burgomaster’s face cleared when he heard that “this is the gentleman who intends to marry Ilona,” and he said more heartily:
“Well, if that’s the case, don’t you worry, sir; you won’t have a too bad time with us here! And if you have to stay longer, we shan’t leave you without a roof over your head. Look over there, at the back …”
He pointed out with his finger a small wooden kiosk with a door and a window, a passage in front of it, and three steps connecting it with the house on the right.
“Do you think I would be able to get into that little cage?” asked Bologa, carefully examining the kiosk.
“Surely! When necessity demands it man can even fit himself into a snake-hole,” continued the burgomaster pleasantly. “I built it myself about seven years ago as a joke, because my little granddaughter kept on begging me to do it—she is no longer here, she is grown up now—so that she should also have a doll’s house. I’d put her off day after day, but the little thing would not let me forget, so one fine morning I said: ‘Very well then, come on, I’ll make you a doll’s house,” for we have more than enough wood round about here. And look, that’s how I built it with my own hands. She had inside a little bed, a little table, and a little chair: everything as for a doll. But a grown-up man can rest there too, if he sets about it cautiously. It is empty now. The authorities have set it aside to be used as a punishment cell for officers—that’s why it’s always deserted. It has only been occupied for one week, that was last autumn, when the Bosnians were here, by a quite young standard-bearer. God knows for what crime. Since then no one has set foot in it.”
Apostol kept on staring with fixed eyes at the kiosk. The burgomaster, somewhat confused, stopped speaking, and the grave-digger stood there shifting his weight from one foot to the other, as if he wished to ask something and didn’t quite know how to start.
“But those others, where are they?” abruptly asked the lieutenant.
“Over on the other side,” whispered the burgomaster, understanding. “O Lord, the wrath of God.… They are Rumanians, poor fellows, and not one of them will get off, to judge from the captain’s fury!”
Bologa followed the burgomaster’s glance and saw a sentry with fixed bayonet standing before a stone barn.
“There?” he murmured still more faintly.
The burgomaster nodded. Then in a tone that seemed to wish to drive away some thought, he said:
“Maybe the general has finished his nap by now.”
Apostol followed mechanically on the heels of the burgomaster. The grave-digger kept close to them both, brooding all the time. At the door of the house the burgomaster’s wife appeared, her hair done in a bun on top of her head. Because she was rather deaf, the burgomaster, so as not to shout, because of the general, said to her, moving his lips exaggeratedly and pointing to Bologa:
“That gentleman is the officer who is going to marry Ilona.”
The woman smiled widely, delightedly, at Bologa. Her husband put his hand on her arm and added:
“Now he is here in connection with those others!”
The woman’s smile changed immediately into a grimace of fear, and her husband signed to her that Bologa had to speak to the general.
“She is a soft-hearted creature, my wife,” explained the burgomaster, lest the lieutenant misconstrued the woman’s look of fear. “She has been ill with horror since she saw the poor men being taken off in procession to the gallows. As a matter of fact, the general thinks a lot of her,” he added rather proudly. “She cooks for him, looks after him …”
Then the grave-digger, sullen, as if someone had been preventing him from speaking until now, cut short the burgomaster’s speech, saying:
“Half a minute, brother-in-law. The thing is, how is Ilona to stay over there all alone?”
“There’s time to see about that,” replied the other, rather annoyed at being interrupted. “Let her be now, no one will eat her. First we must find out what this gentleman has to do. Then, if it’s necessary, we’ll fetch her over also and be done with it! Well, are you satisfied now?”
The grave-digger said nothing more, but went into the room into which the burgomaster’s wife had unobtrusively retired. The burgomaster accompanied Apostol to the general’s door:
“In there!”
Apostol Bologa opened the door. The adjutant greeted him volubly:
“Have you been here long? You’d better tell me. His Excellency has asked three times after you.”
He disappeared, slipping through a door, and three seconds later introduced him into the general’s room, where the blinds were drawn and the lamp was lit.
General Karg was walking about feeling very complacent, with hands behind his back, and the Havana cigar between his teeth was releasing blue rings of smoke. His face was rather puffy, as after a long sleep with pleasant dreams. The adjutant slunk to the writing-table and began to turn over some documents. The general paced the room twice more, as if he were getting a speech ready, then removing the cigar out of his mouth between two fingers, he stopped in front of Apostol. He stared at a few minutes, knitted his brows, and declaimed, but without harshness, in the tone he had used not very long ago on the train:
“I have chosen you to sit on the court martial instead of a sick man—of course this is only provisionally—because I do not care to withdraw officers from the front for … on principle. To-day, however, the court martial has become as important as … the information bureau, for example. Perhaps even more important, for until we have done away with the danger which threatens them from the back, the fighters will have no confidence. I do not wish to give you instructions or to urge you to carry out sacredly the duties of your new office. I wanted to see you merely to draw your attention to the extraordinary importance which the meting out of military justice has just now, in connection with the progress of the war! Yes … unfortunately, and to our shame, many sad cases have occurred here recently among the civilians who surround us. These cases are much more fraught with danger than the foe with whom we fight honourably face to face. Through the spies and traitors in our midst the brave men in the trenches would be disarmed if the arm of military justice did not protect them. That is why we must prosecute without mercy the criminals within our gates! That is the sacred duty of every conscientious and disciplined soldier! We condemn! I hope, therefore, that you will do your duty here as you did it in face of the outside enemy, Bologa! You are intelligent and upright; I have great faith in you, and that, in fact, is why I chose you. You once had an aberration, but I have wiped that off the slate; I have forgotten it. Similarly, I have purposely taken no notice of the accusations regarding your unmilitary attitude when on leave. I judge the soldier from his behaviour at the fron
t, and there you …” (he glanced at Bologa’s breast)—“you should wear your decorations, you have won them with blood and gallantry. That’s what I wanted to say to you before you took up your new duties. I am not in the habit of interfering in the proceedings of the court nor of guiding the arm of justice. All I ask for is stern justice without quarter! Just that and no more!”
The general coughed and stopped speaking. Apostol stared at him with phosphorescent eyes.
“You understand?” asked the general, instinctively avoiding his eyes.
Apostol Bologa, with set lips, bent his head.
“Then forward!” shouted the general.
His cigar had gone out. The adjutant, who never smoked but always carried matches in his pocket, rushed forward diplomatically, happy to be able to light the general’s cigar.
X
Out-of-doors darkness had descended. All around behind the black hills lazy clouds had climbed up, and from the forests a whitish mist had spread a sheet over Faget, through which the twinkle of the stars which shone in the still serene portion of the sky could barely be seen. The windows of the house shone yellow, and the bucket on the well-sweep floated in the mist as on a sheet of water.
Apostol Bologa closed the door carefully. The darkness outside seemed to him so bitter that fear gripped his heart. He walked towards the gate, reached the street, and turned towards the village. The houses stared at him with yellow, astonished eyes. The road beckoned to him peremptorily. His mind was a perfect blank, but his heart urged constantly, “Forward! Forward!” like a commanding officer who brooks no hesitation. His feet stuck to the road as if he had been barefooted, his spurs clinked rhythmically, faintly and pleasantly, like little silver bells in a far-off distance. A few black silhouettes and two carts with wounded coming from the front, at a walk, passed him.
He increased his pace without noticing he did so, as if he had to reach some place at a fixed hour. He felt warm, and all the warmth seemed concentrated in his heart. He passed the station with the reddish roof and left the village.
Forest of the Hanged Page 24
