The Slaughterman's Daughter

by Yaniv Iczkovits

  Mind you, dear madam, this does not mean that the friend-ship between Avramson and Berkovits was rekindled. Quite the opposite is true. Adamsky was not much of a patriot, but he was driven by an uncontrollable death wish. And so, when the Crimean War was over, he was transferred – at his request, actually – to another unit. At his new unit, reporting to an old-fashioned general, Adamsky got his wish. He fought countless battles in the Caucasus War, managing to die at least a dozen times in the eyes of the riflemen who watched him take apart enemy lines with his bare hands. Adamsky, for his part, was simply indifferent to the idea of getting himself killed. Even the Angel of Death preferred to leave him be rather than risk losing an earlobe or an eye. Adamsky was decorated with every class of the Order of St Gregory and never once requested leave. His greatest pleasure was in ransacking Jews’ homes as they watched. He stomped on loaves of bread and vegetables, emptied casseroles on doorsteps, smashed all the porcelain he could find, ripped up clothing, and pissed on firewood. When one of his reporting officers asked him why he didn’t just enjoy the loot, Adamsky replied, as he crushed a cabbage beneath his heel, “Who says we’re not enjoying ourselves?”

  But that was after he had left Radzetsky’s unit. As long as he was with the regiment on the Danube, Adamsky ignored Zizek’s many attempts to catch his eye, assuming a hollow expression whenever the shadow of his childhood friend was near. Zizek was beside himself whenever he saw Adamsky in the distance. The tension peaked when they chanced to run into each other and Zizek twitched a hesitant half-smile.

  “Soldier,” Officer Adamsky barked. “Who do you think you’re smiling at?”

  * * *

  “But if this was so,” Fanny says, “why did Adamsky risk everything and shelter us in his tavern?”

  “His tavern?” the painter asks, surprised, and lifts his head from the canvas. “This I do not know, dear madam, such matters belong to the present. But if I had to make a guess, well then . . . Never mind. Let us finish painting your ear.”

  Intervals

  We have the contour of the face, and the nose, mouth, hair and ears. The portrait is still incomplete, however, because the proportions are not set. People tend to think that proportions are naturally determined by the intervals between the features. Place the nose here and the lips there, and there’s already a space between them. But make it too wide and the expression dissipates. If it is too narrow, the face becomes grotesque. The correct proportions are not created by the face’s features, but rather the intervals between its parts determine its shape. Intervals, dear madam, form the heart of our story. May I continue? Then sit up straight, please.

  A little over twenty years is the interval of time that brings our story to its conclusion. At that point, perhaps you could tell me about the Father’s life since, as you say, you are his niece, although I remain sceptical. However, I doubt that whatever you can tell me would surpass the next part of my story, in which the Father met the Czar, no less. To top that you would have to tell me how the Father met the only one who outranks the Czar, which is to say God Himself. But this, I presume – with all due respect – is something you cannot do.

  * * *

  When the battles on the Danube resumed, Radzetsky was made lieutenant general. He had no need of Mrs Yelena Venediktova anymore. A corps commander does not follow the advice of a St Petersburg lady, high-born though she might be. In other words, by then Radzetsky had completely assimilated Venediktova’s way of thinking. On the one hand, be shrewd, Radzetsky: give those damned aristocrats what they want. Beat them at their own game. On the other hand: never forget that you are of the same stock as the men admired by Mrs Venediktova.

  Indeed, his efforts were fruitful. Who would have thought that when Alexander the Second assembled the high command at the height of the Russo-Turkish war, a messenger would be sent post-haste from the Bulgarian city of Byala to Radzetsky’s forces stationed near Bucharest, asking him to urgently report to the Czar in the white city on the banks of the Yantra?

  Everyone was there. Living legends, walking myths, the titans of glory and splendour. The hard-headed Osip Gurko and the fearless Mikhail Skobelev, and many other famous generals, including Radzetsky, the potato farmer’s son who had paved his way to the top without selling his soul to the Devil.

  Zizek had passed through Byala several times during his military service, and had fond memories of the city. It was small and clean, surrounded by white hills, and home to friendly residents and merry taverns. But now the Russian army that had swept through the city and driven out the Turks marched down streets that reeked of rotting cadavers. The air was viscous and thick, and the waters of the Yantra were putrid. It was impossible to find a meal for less than a rouble, and Radzetsky was incensed by the damned locals taking advantage of honest Russians and babbling on about inflation, when they should have been grateful for their civilised conquerors. They would have done well to ask themselves if they preferred waking up every morning to muezzin calls from mosques.

  The locals, for their part, were generally indifferent to whichever uniform festooned their streets. Their crops were plundered, their wine consumed and the virtue of their women assaulted, and it didn’t matter to them one bit whether this was done in Russian or Turkish. These colossal historical developments took shape far above their heads but hit them right in the gut, and they preferred to sit on their doorsteps and watch events unfold.

  The Czar occupied an abandoned Turkish mansion in the heart of the city surrounded by fences and weeping willows. He was staying in a temporary residence set up in the courtyard, while the meetings were held in the main pavilion, where meals were also taken. Radzetsky and his adjutant were invited to wash and change into their dress uniform (it would be improper to meet the Czar wearing dusty, well-worn fatigues one has ridden in for almost a week). Ignat Shepkin had already portrayed General Radzetsky in a white uniform, exuding might and pride, and the radiant general instructed his talented painter to depict the meeting with his usual skill, in order to surprise the Czar with a gracious tribute.

  We’ve somewhat neglected Ignat Shepkin in our story, dear madam. This is probably due to my disinclination to upset both you and myself. In any event, with your permission, I’ll say a few words about him now.

  Shepkin’s job was indeed dreary, but over the years he became completely absorbed by it. Adamsky burned the bridges to his childhood and focused on his future, that is, his death; Breshov hoped to resurrect his past; whereas Shepkin immersed himself in the present, that is, in the art of painting. You might think, dear madam, that in his spare time Shepkin painted horses, landscapes, battlefields and culinary delights. This is a common mistake. Shepkin never tried to paint anything other than that same accursed portrait he had been taught to draw almost thirty years earlier by Sergeant Sergey Sergeyevich. Most of the time Shepkin lay dozing in his tent, waiting to be called in by his commander. Radzetsky’s satisfaction with his work had yielded Shepkin status and perks, but he drew his inspiration from elsewhere: he aspired to produce the perfect portrait, the most vivid artwork ever made in the history of painting.

  Shepkin taught us artists an important lesson in humility. Is inspiration essential? Absolutely. A muse? Most welcome. Outbursts of creativity? Never hurt anyone. But without accuracy and mathematical precision, one has no right to call oneself a painter. Today, even the advent of what is called a “camera” has not made our services superfluous. And why? Because, as Shepkin taught us, a painting can be more accurate than a photograph.

  If this observation strikes you as strange, dear madam, think of a man looking at his own photograph and failing to recognise the ageing face before him. Radzetsky, on the other hand, thought that Shepkin depicted him impeccably in his portraits, give or take a wrinkle or two. Ultimately, a painting better reflects the image we have of ourselves.

  Shepkin often left camp to holiday in the mountains, where he would occupy himself with his priv
ate affairs, which consisted chiefly of bordellos. Waiters fought over him and prostitutes jockeyed for his attention. As Shepkin lacked almost any conceivable desire, his holidays really meant time off for them too. He ate whatever they served on his plate, gave exorbitant tips, and caressed the prostitutes without ever forcing himself upon them. The sons that many of those women produced were all christened Ignat Shepkin, but no-one knows if they were indeed the fruit of his loins. Nonetheless, Shepkin sent all of them money and visited his putative offspring whenever he could. The youngsters were initially afraid and cried at the mere sight of him, but he treated them like no other man they had met; that is to say, he enveloped them with warmth and love. They, for their part, needed time to grow accustomed to the gaunt man who showered them with kisses, lifted them up in his arms and even rocked them to sleep. Once they became used to his presence, he dedicated himself to teaching them the craft that had saved his life. By the time they turned ten, all of his children could draw the portrait of a proud man wearing a sumptuous army uniform.

  Now I may tell you that my name is also Ignat Shepkin, and therefore I am somewhat invested in this story. If you can believe it, I even remember him, the milksop: however meekly he arrived at the brothel, his presence brightened up the faces of everyone in the room. My mother marvelled and rejoiced, and whatever she wanted, he would give her.

  Why, then, did I warn madam that this story would make her sad? Well, our story is not over yet. I wish, dear madam, that it had ended here. But we were discussing intervals, and at this point, one interval became impossibly narrow.

  When the Czar graciously received his army chiefs and warmly shook Radzetsky’s hand, the newly appointed general felt as though his life had reached its zenith. His Highness recognised him! There could be no doubt now that the Hussar had made a name for himself. Radzetsky could not take his eyes off the Czar and motioned to Shepkin to start painting. At his side, Adjutant Breshov waited, tense and worried, wondering what turn these events would take.

  The Czar was exhausted, his head drooped and his throat was sore and congested. But he was thrilled to hear about the loyal troops who had given up their lives in the battles on the Danube, the units that had charged at the superior enemy forces of the Bashi-Bazouk, and about the small victories on the Danube and the Shipka Pass. Then the conversation shifted to the besieged city of Plevna. Skobelev was furious that the army had not attacked it sooner, while other generals defended their decision to hold back.

  Radzetsky’s moment had arrived. He gargled, coughed and then mumbled, “Why lay siege to it at all?” Skobelev and the other officers fell silent and looked around for the source of the buzzing sound that had interrupted their conversation. When their eyes rested on Radzetsky, he turned red with pride and launched into a Sun Tzu quotation: “A siege will consume your strength. The general, unable to control his irritation, will send his men to attack like swarming ants, with the result that a third of his men will be slain and the town will remain untaken. Such are the disastrous effects of a siege.”

  The Czar raised his head and looked straight at Radzetsky.

  “Who is that?” Skobelev asked the Czar’s adjutant, rather than addressing Radzetsky directly.

  “This is General Radishevo,” said the chief adjutant, checking his lists.

  “Radzetsky,” Adjutant Breshov corrected him. “General Radzetsky.”

  “Yes, of course,” the chief adjutant mumbled, with another look at his lists. “Radzetsky of the Ninth Army.”

  “The Eleventh Army,” said Breshov.

  “Of course, of course, the Eleventh Army.”

  “The Eleventh Army?” said Skobelev, chuckling and turning to the Czar. “This is the force we are keeping in reserve near Bucharest.” The officers sitting around the table roared with laughter, and Skobelev rounded on Radzetsky. “You haven’t fired a single bullet in years, so why don’t you keep your mouth shut.”

  Radzetsky’s face was on fire. He had never been humiliated this way before. He remained sitting at the table but his hands were shaking and he was burning with rage. What is more, as another senior general entered the pavilion, he noticed Shepkin’s portrait of the Czar. He removed the canvas from its easel, turned it towards the assembly and remarked, “Your Highness, it seems that this painter misses your father, Nikolai the First.” More laughter thundered from the generals and they demanded to know how the artist had produced such a strange picture.

  “Sir,” the general shook Shepkin by the shoulder, “a new Czar ascended the throne more than twenty years ago. Who is your commander?” And so Radishevo’s name, that is, Radzetsky’s, was mentioned in yet another humiliating context. He was now the laughing stock of the high command.

  “Such are the disastrous effects of a painting,” Skobelev said, paraphrasing Sun Tzu and instantly improving the mood around the table. Radzetsky shot Breshov a look that promised nothing good.

  The humiliated general remained huddled in his chair until the meeting ended. In an instant, he had gone back to being the lowly peasant’s son from Kazan, an object of scorn for St Petersburg’s nobility.

  When the meeting was adjourned, the Czar continued his consultation with Skobelev and Gurko. Breshov and Shepkin felt the same sharp stab that had punctured Radzetsky’s heart. The Czar briefly raised his eyes from the maps and looked straight at Radzetsky. The general stood up straight: was the Czar about to ask him for advice or share the confidential matter at hand? But the Czar merely stared vaguely at a button of his coat, as though he could see right through him. Radzetsky took a deep breath. He’ll teach them to call him “Radishevo”. He will prove them wrong about “not firing a single bullet”.

  Dear madam, you can probably guess what happened next. No letter can stop a man from trying to prove a point with his own death, not even the surprising letter that one of Radzetsky’s officers received shortly thereafter from his mother. A fervent patriot and an eighth-generation Petersburgian, the concerned lady warned her son that there was talk in the capital of the aristocracy’s intentions to dismiss the entire cohort of generals who, she said, were leading Russia to its demise. Two names that kept coming up, she went on, were Skobelev and Gurko, who insisted on sending their troops on suicidal missions that failed miserably. They would be guillotined and replaced with more prudent officers, the letter concluded. Radzetsky listened attentively as Breshov read and then exclaimed, “Bullshit! No-one remembers the prudent.”

  And so Breshov, who had rescued tens of thousands of lives thanks to the power of words, was helpless two days later as Radzetsky ordered his unit to move south-west towards Plevna. The troops marched for weeks in the heavy heat, and close to four hundred of them died of dehydration on the way. Half of those who remained alive marched with stress fractures and sprained backs. And who joined the march? Shepkin and Breshov, the painter and the adjutant, who had been cast out of headquarters because portraits of a former emperor and fabricated letters were no longer in demand. Radzetsky was determined to throw his unit into the fray.

  Near the village of Pordim, Radzetsky came across Skobelev’s units. Instead of joining forces with the larger army of a more senior general, Radzetsky did not even stop to encamp but pressed on to flank the next village, Lyubcha, exposing his troops to Ottoman fire as they crossed an open field in territory completely under Turkish control. Ignorant of Skobelev’s plan to attack Lyubcha, which had been conceived months earlier, Radzetsky ordered his soldiers to charge directly at the enemy’s cannons. It was late at night when the first shell fell among his soldiers. The Ottoman gunman had fired it almost reluctantly on hearing rustling noises rising from the cornfields, not even sure whether it came from the battlefront or from his dream. But once he heard the commotion stirred by the shell, he alerted his comrades to take up their positions as they realised they were facing an entire Russian corps, about to attack. Radzetsky, who had been eagerly waiting for this moment, rode to t
he first line of attack and ordered his cavalry to charge.

  What were they supposed to charge at? Dear madam, I’m sure you can imagine. Shells, bullets and spears in fortified positions. One by one, Radzetsky’s horsemen fell into the jaws of fire as their commander-in-chief urged them to their death: “Ah! Che la morte!” Straggling behind, the infantry regiment gradually disintegrated, veiled by shrapnel and smoke. A few dozen came within firing range of the Turkish positions, but every shot they fired was met with lethal return salvos. Before half an hour had elapsed, Radzetsky’s troops were scattered in all directions. Some of them retreated towards Pordim while others fled straight into the hands of Ottoman reinforcements. A lucky few hid in the fields and waited to be rescued. Only when day broke did the true scale of the catastrophe emerge. Not only had an entire Russian army corps been decimated, dear madam, there was not a corpse left without a sliced-off ear or severed genitals. Heads rolled about like rocks, uniforms had been stripped away, and dead bodies became the fodder of carrion-birds and wild animals. Radzetsky’s head lay at a fair distance from his body, his eyes staring towards his torso with neither pride nor peace.