Radzetsky was in his element in the army. It permitted him to pass on to his troops the obedience and overwhelming sense of loyalty to the Czar that his upbringing had instilled in him. Back then, it was the officers’ prerogative to flog soldiers, but Radzetsky considered it an obligation. Soldiers had to be flogged each and every week as long as they could not prove their innocence, and they not only had to prove their own innocence but also that of their comrades. Radzetsky’s standard procedure was collective punishment. A defecting soldier knew that his entire squad would be taken to jail and that, because of him, each comrade would be flogged fifty times every day. A marksman knew that if he did not charge to certain death in battle, he would be hung by his ankles in the scorching heat until he begged the Angel of Death to carry him away. One’s sense of duty to the Czar was absolute.
Gregory Radzetsky’s rapid rise up the ranks can be attributed to his contribution to the suppression of the Hungarian revolution. A regiment from the Czar’s army was called in to assist the Austrian Empire in crushing the uprising, and more than eight thousand of the infantrymen who crossed the Carpathian Mountains were defeated by the superior Hungarian forces. A mere two thousand Russian troops survived, having escaped either death or captivity. Radzetsky’s platoon did not fare much better than the rest of the regiment, but his tactics caught the attention of the army’s top brass. At first, the generals found the stories about him hard to believe, but as the rumours persisted they left little room for doubt. For one thing, the young lieutenant did not allow his soldiers to evacuate their wounded comrades after battle. In his eyes, being wounded meant one had failed to perform one’s duty; it was a mark of mediocrity whose bearers were left suspended between the only desirable outcomes: victory or death. A wounded soldier also strained the unit’s logistics. A casualty might put healthy soldiers at risk, and, what is more, the country would be required to spend a fortune on the recovery of a man who might never return to the battlefield, which was tantamount to ransacking the Czar’s coffers. Instead, if wounded, a brave carabineer was expected not to indulge in self-pity but to rejoin the ranks and carry on fighting, thereby making his death worthwhile. Indeed, dear madam, Radzetsky forbade his troops from evacuating the wounded, and in principle, however ridiculous it may sound, he forbade them to be wounded at all. Brothers in arms were forced to watch their comrades sprawled on the ground bleeding (the traitors), moaning in pain or taken captive (the cowards), either suffering a slow death or being murdered and robbed by the enemy. Radzetsky maintained that the wounded could have died promptly and spared themselves the ordeal, and few dared to disagree.
Then there was a sensitive religious point: Lieutenant Radzetsky refused to evacuate dead bodies. He declared that removing the corpses would crush morale, because such palpable encounters with death make it extremely difficult to deny its imminence. And this denial is essential for a soldier’s ability to function on the battlefield.
Furthermore, as you may have deduced from what has been said thus far, Radzetsky believed that an officer should not strive to be liked by his soldiers. Soldiers do not charge to their deaths out of love, and they do not keep their formation out of affection. A soldier should know that obeying orders is his only chance of survival.
And finally, Radzetsky did not care for his platoon’s camaraderie. Soldiers should not be friends with one another. Discipline in battle, as we already know, should be based on obedience and duty alone. In short, dear madam, Radzetsky did not demand from his soldiers anything that he did not demand from himself. And all that he demanded from himself amounted to steely discipline, boundless fervour and a heroic death brought about by obedience.
The young lieutenant spared nothing in his attempt to sub-due the Hungarian rebels. He demolished his unit completely in pointless ambushes near Hermannstadt. Then he attacked mountain passes in the Carpathians from weak positions, drawing an entire Russian company into the debacle. The force commander was killed and it seemed only natural that Radzetsky should take his place. But instead of retreating to Walachia and letting his unit lick its wounds, Radzetsky sent his soldiers on a desperate outflanking manoeuvre and, thanks to an orienteering blunder, led his troops directly into the enemy’s main line of fire. The army commanders watched the new major in admiration: had he attained any notable achievements? No. Had he caused unnecessary losses? Without a doubt. Had he proved to be an impressive tactician? Not really. Well, let’s keep an eye on this promising officer. And why? Very simple: there had been no defections, the soldiers marched in impeccable formations, the military band blew their trumpets until their last breath, the soldiers charged to their deaths without question, and in a remarkable display of logistical frugality, the division had been spared the need to take care of either wounded or dead soldiers. Give us a thousand more Radzetskys and we will set out to conquer the British Isles – even if twenty Russians will die for every British soldier.
As you can imagine, dear madam, if Sergeant Sergey Sergeyev had known that he was sending his adopted sons to this madman, he would have done everything within his power to prevent such a mistake from happening. But when he heard that a “new” regiment was being set up not far from Bucharest, he did not know that this regiment’s history went as far back as Catherine the Great. Nor did he know that most of its soldiers, the adjutant included, had perished in one or other of Gregory Radzetsky’s misadventures. So it was that our protagonist, who is today called “the Father” and back then was a fifteen-year-old apprentice, reported to Radzetsky’s unit. At his side rode Ignat Shepkin, who was not yet eleven, and possessed no useful skills save his talent for serial productions of the Iron Czar’s portrait. Now I can finally continue drawing your mouth; just the name of this duo, Zizek and Ignat, is enough to calm me.
Mouth – continued
Radzetsky was very excited at their arrival. His regiment had not yet been allocated a new adjutant, let alone a military artist. He immediately ordered Private Shepkin to paint a portrait of him poring over maps of the Danube. What did Shepkin do? Just as he always did. He painted the Iron Czar, covering Nikolai the First’s receding hairline with tufts of hair, and adding the brown bandana that Radzetsky kept knotted around his own neck.
Dear madam, let me tell you something: people like nothing more than to look at a flattering portrait of themselves. Sergeant Sergey Sergeyev knew what he was doing when he punished Ignat Shepkin by forcing him to copy the Czar’s portrait. Suddenly, Gregory Radzetsky saw himself – the son of muzhiks from a village near Kazan who had risen to the rank of colonel with neither title nor ties – as he had never seen himself before. He looked at the painting of his dull face – elongated skull, rough skin, brown eyes, dishevelled hair, nose twitching in contempt and lips glistening with foam – and saw the face of an aristocrat. The green eyes, groomed moustache, trimmed sideburns, slightly high forehead, perhaps, and somewhat bulky chin, all formed the image of a model officer, a man of honour and duty.
Radzetsky examined his portrait for a long time, and Zizek noticed that his eyes seemed to soften. Later, Zizek would realise that this was the first time that Radzetsky had not seen himself as the illiterate son of a worthless potato grower. Now he was a learned officer, a true-blue member of the nobility! A bona fide artist has painted my portrait, he was thinking to himself . . . Gregory Radzetsky, this is you, this is you without a shadow of a doubt.
“Can you march?” Radzetsky asked Private Shepkin.
“Yes, sir.”
“Can you continue to paint even if shells fall around you and bullets whistle past you?”
“Yes?” Shepkin hesitated. He pulled himself together. “Yes.”
“Do you know any goddamned words other than ‘yes’?”
“No, sir.” Shepkin wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say, but the tone indicated that this question had right and wrong answers.
“Private, you do realise that you have just contradicted yourself?�
�
“Yes, sir.”
“Does it not bother you?”
“No, sir.”
“Excellent. The job is yours! Next time make the hairline lower. Understood?”
Shepkin nodded, even though he was not sure if he did.
“And try not to give me a double chin, goddammit. And you,” Radzetsky turned to Zizek and spat through the gap between his front teeth, “what the hell are you doing here?”
Zizek began listing his impressive adjutant skills: he could manage the rostering of men on duty and on leave, survey the wounded and optimise deployment. The colonel was unimpressed. In his regiment, there was no need for a roster. Soldiers were counted three times a day, and if each tally was the same as the one before, their names did not matter one bit. Radzetsky’s troops were never granted leave, and wounded soldiers, as we know, were to be avoided at all costs. “In other words,” he said to Zizek, “your skills are useless. Go to the armoury and have someone teach you how to operate a musket. Then report to one of the goddamned platoons.”
Zizek was not surprised by the outcome of his interview, even though it had not gone according to plan. He made no mention of his fluency in four languages, which could have spared him from becoming a rifleman in Gregory Radzetsky’s regiment. Two days later he reported to his new platoon, and, like every other junior soldier, he was ordered to polish the soldiers’ boots and serve them their meals. It is hard to blame Radzetsky’s troops, dear madam, for forcing young Zizek to serve their bread and tinned meat wearing a prostitute’s ribbon on his head. These soldiers faced almost certain death, despair was a constant feature of their lives, their separation from earthly temptations was near, and they were prepared to believe in the afterworld more than ever before. The only way they could feel better about themselves was to debase and humiliate their inferiors, relishing the fact that the fate of these boys was even worse than their own. Mind you, Zizek was not the only one who was left without a modicum of dignity. Every other new recruit entered the tents either as a butler, a shoeshine, or to carry out tasks that it is best not to mention in the presence of a lady.
Your lips are pursed with horror, dear madam. Pray relax, this will not help me portray your hardy, tenacious face. I wouldn’t want you to think that the story I am telling you is one of only despair and submission. Not at all. The body is never defeated, and even the Father managed to find a way to extract himself from his predicament. Although it didn’t happen overnight. In the camp by the Danube, Zizek suffered humiliation for months at the hands of Gregory Radzetsky’s regiment.
Do you know, dear madam, what is the soldier’s worst enemy? No, not hunger, thirst or fatigue. Neither nostalgia nor death. Soldiers are prepared for these well in advance. Even if such hindrances are unpleasant, a solution can always be found, except for death, of course, which is the ultimate solution for everything else. The answer is “the cold”, dear madam. Yes, yes, the cold. Anyone who has ever worn an army uniform will tell you this. While the heat can be obnoxious, the cold is sheer agony. You try to protect yourself from it, you curl up and summon your defences, you wear every layer of clothing you’ve got, even your helmet when the cannons are silent. You cover your ears and block your nose. You’d give anything for a sheepskin coat and a mongoose fur. But if the cold is determined enough, if it finds a loophole and reaches your skin, it will penetrate your flesh and nest in your bones no matter what you do. As long as you lack the means to buy a fur coat, you will find yourself, as Zizek did, huddled with a few other boys for a pointless ambush on the Danube in peacetime, your body shivering, your bones angry, your bowels groaning, shaking and hurting all over. These are the moments when the body is drained of its last drop of strength, dear madam, when the mind can think of nothing but the freezing cold. You would sell your own mother for a mug of tea, your children for a steaming bowl of soup, and you would set fire to your own home for a hot bath. At moments like these the heart comes undone. This is when young soldiers, who are usually indifferent and reticent and don’t have fur coats, allow themselves to become poets.
A private shares a memory of a day like any other: sitting at the dining table in his home in Yaroslav, his father serving chicken soup, his brothers exchanging kicks under the table. The story flows without much happening, and then suddenly his comrades are muffling their sobs, releasing dams of tearless sorrow and boundless longing. Another soldier says, “I wish I could write to them,” and the storyteller says, surprised, “Why would you want to write to my family?” The soldiers exchange smiles and thank the Lord for this moment of grace that makes them feel human again. Emotion breaks through the icy crust of obedience and duty, making them recognise their love for each other, their brotherhood, and the consolation they share. Then Zizek says, “I can write that letter for you.”
Everyone is silent. The older soldiers do not take the opportunity to punish this clever-clogs daring to condescend to the illiterates in the group. Normally, there is nothing that riflemen detest more than learned people, who think that sitting in libraries makes them wise, and yet Zizek’s offer is not ridiculed. Instead, the older soldiers reverently turn to him to make appointments for letter-writing, bickering over who will go first, and for how long, suddenly fighting between themselves instead of against the enemy.
And so Zizek became the most indispensable soldier of his platoon. His comrades took his rifle away and replaced it with quill and paper. In utmost secrecy, he began writing one letter after another for the older soldiers. After midnight, barely able to keep his eyes open, he tried his best to do some letter-writing for the new recruits as well. Before long, Zizek even started offering editorial advice. “Instead of ‘say hello to the children’, how about ‘please tell the children that a day doesn’t go by without my thinking of them’?”
The soldier dictating the letter would hesitate. “Does that sound better to you?”
“The meaning is the same,” Zizek would reply, “but the wording is more idiomatic.”
“Idiomatic?”
“Yes, idiomatic.”
“Well, if it means the same thing then let’s be idio-whatever.”
Zizek would tell another soldier, “‘I miss sitting in my chair by the fireplace’ isn’t bad, but perhaps you could say, ‘I miss watching you as I sit in my chair by the fireplace’.”
The soldier would grow defensive. “Don’t you think it’s embarrassing for a man to write like that?”
“Why should it be embarrassing? You’d be saying the same thing – don’t you miss your chair by the fireplace?”
“Of course I do.”
“And what do you see when you sit in that chair?”
“My wife standing in the kitchen.”
“Well, then it’s one and the same.”
“So it’s not embarrassing?”
“Of course not.”
Some soldiers did not seek out Zizek and did not wait in the queue for his help. Perhaps their letters were too personal. Perhaps they feared that others would overhear their innermost secrets. Who knows. In any event, Zizek had met one of them before, and the two of them avoided each other’s gaze whenever their paths crossed in the camp. The soldier in question was a young sergeant who had joined Radzetsky’s regiment only recently, but had already built up a reputation for courage and intrepidness. His name was Patrick Adamsky, and Zizek’s heart seemed to stop every time he walked past him. Of broad torso and burning amber eyes, Adamsky subjected his subordinates to a rigorous discipline that made them admire him all the more. Zizek hoped that at some point Sergeant Adamsky would want to dictate a short letter to his aunt, Mirka Avramson. But Adamsky never approached Zizek or addressed him. Instead, he chose to send money in wordless envelopes from the Bucharest post office.
Adamsky, however, was an anomaly. Everyone else flocked to Zizek as though he was the Messiah. Dear madam, the winter months of the year eighteen hundred and
fifty-two were the happiest that Russian soldiers’ wives had known since the birth of the Russian empire. Not only were they fortunate enough to have dutiful husbands and reliable breadwinners for their families, but their men also turned out to be sensitive poets attuned to the nuances of the feminine mind. However, this proved to be a mixed blessing. Before, the soldiers’ wives had believed that their loneliness was a form of sacrifice on a par with that of their husbands, and told their neighbours that it was an honour and a duty to bear this burden, even as they secretly resented having to raise children on their own and had affaires with men of lesser courage but closer proximity than their husbands. And now, suddenly, these women wanted their husbands back, and for all they cared the whole Russian army could fall apart.
You might ask yourself, dear madam, how could a fifteen-year-old write such affecting letters? What could he have known about love and women, how could he have had the nerve to correct a father’s expression of longing for his children? True, he knew little about women and he certainly had no children of his own. But he did know a fair bit about longing, about pain and about missing your home. Add this to his Pushkin-inspired prose, and behold! Any one of these elements alone would have sufficed. But Zizek had it all. Dear lady, those letters were masterpieces.
The Slaughterman's Daughter Page 26
