Unto All Men

by Taylor Caldwell

  Today the “token” detachment of German troops was to enter Czechoslovakia. Nearly all the populace had swarmed towards the border, rapturous, eager to greet the conquerors and “deliverers.” It was a holiday. The schools, the little farmhouses, the tiny villages, were empty, even the square stone schoolhouse, standing there in the center of the road. Old Hardheel forced open the door, and his followers entered.

  The shutters were drawn. They locked the door after them. They looked at the scrawls on the blackboards, at the books, the desks and the doll. They tried on their gasmasks, rubbed their guns. They removed their packs. Some of them sat down. Old Hardheel and one or two others stood by the shutters, watching the road. It was down that road, triumphant and singing, that some of the German troops would come.

  It is madness. It is the end, thought Tomas, sitting on his pack. But he did not believe it. In his heart, he did not believe it.

  He got up and went to one of the shutters. By craning his neck and squinting he could see beyond the green of the fields; he could see the far fugitive gold of harvests, shimmering in the brilliant light. He could see the hollow blue and shining whiteness of the mountains. Then suddenly he could not help laughing. A solemn string of cows marched across the road not twenty yards from the schoolhouse. The others heard the laughter, and they got up and went to the shutters. When they saw the cows, moving majestically across the road, with the dignified imbecility of their kind, they burst into laughter also. Even the little white Jew laughed.

  But the laughter ended. They were silent again, resuming their former positions. Someone passed cigarettes around. Everyone smoked. There was no sound in the schoolhouse; there was only the huddled shapes of the soldiers, the glinting of their fixed bayonets, the gray coiling of their smoke. Old Hardheel watched the road.

  Each man thought his thoughts. To each of them, there was now nothing but their thoughts. Death was approaching them on the long empty highway. The sun was moving westwards, and each lengthening shadow was the finger that pointed to their end. There was no chance for them. It was their last day, perhaps their last hour, on earth.

  Tomas had seen death many times in the hospitals. It had ceased to be mysterious and terrible to him. Loathsome at times, perhaps, disgusting other times, painful to watch at others. But not tragic. And in the last analysis, not very important. He attached no mysticism to it.

  He had occasionally thought of death in connection with himself, but only as a very distant and vague possibility. When he was very old, perhaps, and tired of living, heavy with experience, smothered with grandchildren. He had seem himself with a white beard and white hair, perhaps a little doddering and old machine that had lost its usefulness. Once or twice he had thought that he might die of some middle-age disease, but that was very remote, also. Life had seemed endless to his youth, a long highway bordered with delightful pleasures and interesting events, and losing itself dimly on the horizon.

  But now he was forced to think of death in immediate connection with himself. It seemed incredible to him. He looked at the face of death, appalled, rebellious, repudiate. Death to Tomas Slivak, who was scarcely twenty-one! His cigarette fell from his lips as full realization struck him to the heart. His young flesh turned cold with horror as though it suddenly understood for the first time. His blood seemed to stand still in his veins, chilling him with a mortal stagnation.

  Death! For what? Last night in the firelight, out in the cool odorous forest, it had appeared that death was a small thing, not to be counted before that bitter grief and shame. But now it was no small thing, but a terrible one, stony with horror. He felt as a criminal feels before his execution. Now an icy sweat broke out all over him. He stood up abruptly. He found himself glancing about, as a man does who frenziedly looks for escape. There was the door. He had only to go to it, to lift its bolt, and step out, free and alive, into the sunshine. No one would mock him or blame him, or call him coward. He would not even feel that he was a coward, himself. For the others, no decorations. Czechoslovakia herself would be forced to disown and disclaim them, as trouble-makers who had threatened to destroy her precarious and loathsome peace. The Germans would throw their mutilated bodies in some roadside ditch, toss the hasty earth over them. No one would ever know where they lay, nor would they be remembered by a shaft of marble or a passing glance. And Tomas’ father would be left alone, in his elegant silver and curio shop. Tomas could see him greeting his customers, bowing to them, beaming on them. But there would be only a glazed anguish in his eyes. He would not even have the poor recompense, the agonized pride of saying: “My son! He died in honorable combat, fighting with his comrades in defense of his country!”

  Tomas stared at the door. But he saw only death and his father’s face He took a step towards the door. His comrades glanced up quickly, saw him take the step, saw his expression, the lax way in which he held his gun. They did not move nor speak. Standing near the shutter, Old Hardheel slowly turned his head and watched the young man. His face did not change.

  Tomas had always been a realist. Had he read a story like this, of eight men dooming themselves voluntarily to death, he would have laughed, and called them sentimental fools. Love of country? The honor of one’s country? What were they? The shibboleths of politicians and statesmen, the duplicity of schemers for power. Like religion, they were witch-words to emasculate the strength of the people, to keep them in entranced subjection. No people in spite of their governments were worse than another people. Even governments tended to equalize themselves, to take on the flavor and coloring of neighbor-governments, no matter how strange and unorthodox they appeared in the beginning. Everything leveled itself in time to the common denominator. Therefore, it was foolish to hate another government, to long to destroy it, to decide to die to overthrow it.

  Tomas remembered these former thoughts of his. He examined them with passionate intensity. No matter how he turned them about and went over them, he could find nothing wrong with their logic. They had been weighed in the scale of history, and they had balanced. They were entirely valid. And yet, he finally turned away from them.

  He knew now that there were things that it was necessary for a man to do for himself, even though he died in the doing. He knew that if he lived, went home, he would have no honor in himself. How foolish! Exclaimed his reason. Your death will solve nothing!

  But all at once he knew this was not true. News had a way of leaking out. There was a possibility that the news of their death would reach the ears of the world. Men who had died for freedom, for democracy. The world loved those who died in hopeless causes, knowing they were hopeless. Such heroism stirred it. There was just a possibility that its dull, indifferent and cynical heart might be moved, and that it might turn its attention upon the reason why these man die. There was just a slight chance that their death might be the small stone thrown in the path of the flood of barbarism. The stone is small, and the flood at first roars over it. But the flood carries in itself the hate-debris of the oppressed and this debris begins to collect about the tiny stone in the path of the flood. And as the debris gathers, it begins to form an obstacle, slight at first, but growing hourly, until at last it is a wall, a barrier, and the flood is brought to a standstill. And at last, it is burned back upon itself, and is lost.

  He sat down. Picked up his fallen and smoldering cigarette. He had been a realist. But he knew now that civilizations are not built by realists, but by the idealists who dream and die. There was decadence in realism; that was the trouble with the modern world. Strange that no one had guessed that before! There was death in realism, not only to the idealists, but to all men. There was no goodness in it, nothing in it that could transform a Neanderthal brute into a man. Perhaps the brute was not worth transforming. But there was just a chance that he was. And Tomas dared not repudiate or deny that chance.

  Old Hardheel turned back to his watch.

  Spi
talny seemed to find his thoughts ironical, for he smiled faintly to himself. I am a fool, he thought. I do not really love my country. I was deceived by my own emotion, my own sentimentality. Last night I spoke of honor and killing. How stupid! Last night I wept! For what? It is on tears such as mine that nations are swept into foolish wars. I care for nothing but Toni. Toni is beautiful, and so is the word. I can leave neither. What am I doing here? I must go, for Toni is getting impatient and the sun still shines!

  He stood up, looked about him impatiently. What matter will it be to Toni, or to the sunshine, or even to me, if the Germans take half of my country. No matter at all. I must go!

  But he did not move. For all at once he was full of weariness and distaste.

  I am not rich, he thought. But Toni is rich, and still young. I cannot live without her, but she can well live without me. In time, all things will leave me as Toni will leave me eventually. My youth, my strength, my voice, my joy in living – they will all leave me. Worse, I will not even care about their going. How terrible that will be, not to care that life is going!

  If I die now, he thought, I shall die knowing I love Toni and that she still loves me. I shall die, knowing that life is exquisitely sweet and beautiful. I shall die, knowing that life is good enough to die in the midst of it.

  He sat down again. Tomas looked at him steadily. The young men gazed into each other’s eyes, and smiled. Tomas offered a cigarette. The match they struck for that cigarette seemed a brief fire of understanding.

  The poor Pole, Sczwerski was thinking wistfully of the bath establishment he would never have. His heart ached with regret. He thought of that establishment as he had never thought of a woman. There would be alternate hot and cold streams, rotating on nude flesh. And marble benches, like those in the parks. No one would be rushed. There would be esoteric conversation, as distinguished clients lolled on rubber cushions and were rubbed with oils. There would be a mud bath, and a perfumed bathing pool for the women. Of course, it would cost a great deal of money, and he would be considerably in debt. But what did not matter? The baths were the thing. He sighed. There were so few kings these days to decorate one for outstanding performances.

  But now there would be no baths, no establishment, no light-tongued women and important men. The money would go to his parents.

  Then of his parents! His parents who had been saved by Czechoslovakia! How they loved their country! He could see his mother’s face again, wrinkled and at peace, forgetting her cruelly aching back. He saw the scar on his father’s face. Suddenly he wept aloud, clenching his fists. And now his country was threatened by the ferocity of Poland. If nothing was done his section of Czechoslovakia would be turned back to Poland. His parents would be enslaved again. There were always the whips---.

  A man had to make a beginning. If he died today, killing some of the destroyers of his country, it would be only a small thing. But everything started with small things. Fortunes were begun with a pfennig. Perhaps the saving of Czechoslovakia would start with his death. He wiped away the tears that lay on his pouting cheeks. He looked about him, and his face was full of radiance.

  He looked at the aristocrats, Slivak and Spitalny, who had been unbelievably good fellows to him, in spite of his humble position. They, too, were willing to die for Czechoslovakia. He looked at the little white Jew, who face was full of the exaltation of a man who has been freed. He seemed to brood in a sort of supernatural ecstasy. The Pole frowned. He could not understand this.

  Boehn, the Sudeten German democrat, could think of nothing but his plump young wife with her hard red cheeks, and two fat babies. What would become of them? To be sure, his wife had two wealthy brothers in Prague, and these brothers,who loved Czechoslovakia, would help her. One of them was childless, and he had already sent the twins two gilt christening cups. It was said that he carried small photographs of them in his bulging wallet. He would not let Mari and the babies starve; in fact, they would prosper with him. Perhaps Mari might marry again, in time.

  But his babies would grow up without every knowing him. They might even have a stepfather whom they would love. Boehn sighed. That was very bad, not even living in the memory of his children.

  His children would have a happy life. Unless — ! Unless the world were drowned in barbarism. Unless the Germans came, the Nazi Germans, and killed Mari and the babies. There were such horrible tales out of Austria these days. He had a distant cousin there. But one day a letter had been returned to him, unclaimed. Only silence.

  These things awaited Mari and the children, unless some men, perhaps only a handful of men, perhaps this handful of men, set themselves like pegs of wood in the walls of the dyke. Eight pegs. Perhaps they might hold the walls until help came, until the world awakened to the torrents that threatened it.

  Perhaps it would be his body that would plug the hole that led to Mari and the babies!

  The brothers Gowarski sat side by side, frowning anxiously. He was thinking the thoughts of the other. The harvests! How they had worked on them! Spring had come late that year, reluctantly, as though hating the world. But she had given in, eventually. What else could she do, when she was wooed by such as these brothers? They had turned the frosty brown earth, had seen the small wet stones in it glitter in the spring sun. They had felt the earth’s proud and stubborn resistance, had know exhilaration when she submitted. They had put in the seeds.

  The summer came and the fields, so empty and barren, were suddenly full of the golden rustle of grain. It was wonderful, knowing that four hard hands had brought this about. It would be a good harvest. There would be meat twice or perhaps even three times a week on the table this winter. The children would grow fat.

  The earth was so good. It was precious, like one’s heart, living, like one’s flesh. It was like a woman, to be loved It was one’s soul. The brothers could not imagine a man without land of his own, even a hand’s breadth of land. The lives men lived in cities was horrible, not to be thought of without wonderment and pity. Imagine not to be able to see an uncluttered sky, not to feel earth under one’s foot! Imagine living in stone and wooden boxes, without the smell of living things in one’s nose. Imagine having to walk narrow streets, walled in by bland dead walls. It was a nightmare.

  When the brothers thought of Czechoslovakia they thought of their land. When they had decided to die, it was for their burnished acres that they were dying, and not for a government, not for democracy.

  There they were, in that dim-roomed schoolhouse, each man thinking his thoughts, each man waiting to die for a reason not shared by his comrades.

  The sun tilted more towards the west, pouring out his light, as though he were a cup. Now the western mountains lost their airy and crystal blue, bulked more strongly against the sky. Tomas glanced at his watch. It was nearly four. They had been waiting nearly two hours.

  Spitalny glanced at each man. He thought: a song, perhaps? Don’t men about to die sing songs? I remember that from a theatre in Budapest. But he could sing no song at all. And looking at his comrades, he knew that they could not sing.

  There was a slight movement, and everyone looked at the Gowarski brothers. Quite simply, without sheepishly or self-consciousness, they were kneeling side by side on the floor, their dirt-stained peasant hands clasped in prayer, their faces bent. There was something pathetic, yet something of great dignity in their silent praying, for all that their broad shoulders were bent in humility and they had no great words. No one smiled, not even Spitalny. One by one they removed their caps. Even Old Hardheel by the shutter removed his cap, though he did not take his eyes from the road.

  The peasants got up, sat down again on their packs. Their hands stole to each other; without turning their heads, they clasped hands like children.

  The moments crept on. The autumn sun was hot. But still upon the road there was no movement, and there was no soun
d.

  The peasants and the Pole drowsed. In fact, the Pole snored. In the dim light it was easy to see that every face was strained and gaunt, as though the spirit, knowing, was already preparing to leave. Cheeks fell in; eyes became hollow. Every forehead became damp with sweat. Yet still, no one spoke.

  Suddenly Old Hardheel stirred, tensed. Every man spring to his feet, seized his gun. The sergeant turned upon them, his eyes glittering.

  “They are coming,” he said in his harsh voice.

  Every man took from his pack a hand grenade, examined, for the dozenth time, the bayonet on his gun. There was about them a feverish activity. Their panting breaths could be heard in whistles and grunts. They crowded about the shutters, some standing on tiptoe to peer over their comrades.

  Far down on the white road there was a confused dark blur like dust. It grew larger. They could make out toy motor cars and motorcycles. Moment by moment the cavalcade loomed darker upon the road. The Germans.

  Old Hardheel flung open the shutters. The dazzling sunlight streamed into the dimness, and now each could see his fellow’s face. He saw the ghastly whiteness, the drawn and deliriously sparkling eyes, the bitten lips. The sergeant turned to his men for the last time.

  “God be with you, my children,” he said. His voice broke. He bent his head.

  Now each man in his turn looked for the last time at the sky and the mountains. Where shall I be in an hour? thought Tomas.

  The approaching hordes could not be heard. Faint snatches of song reached the waiting comrades. They heard the steady purring of the cars and trucks and cycles. Now they could see banners blazing in the sunlight, banners with contorted crosses upon them. The swastika.

  The Germans came on, whistling and singing in their relief and triumph. In the tiny little gray schoolhouse, standing there so oddly in the center of the road, so that traffic had to go around it in a divided ribbon, death waited for many of them.