by Holub, Josef
Just to be safe, we observe the lake and surroundings from a distance. No Cossacks or Bashkirs or other people. No suspicious movements in the adjoining forest, either. So we have the lake to ourselves, and I can wash uniforms in peace.
Somewhere in the distance there’s a whump of artillery. I wonder if another battle is in progress? Never mind. It’s so far away that it doesn’t concern us, and we don’t need to think about it. But the faraway noise rapidly comes nearer. It seems to be from due east. Maybe not too far from Moscow. With all this banging, it has to be quite a big show. Probably it’s another battle after all. Definitely. All those gunpowder explosions and masses of rifle shots. We can even hear the signal trumpets when the wind is from that quarter, and the drumbeats calling on regiments to fire.
The lieutenant wants me to make haste. Because of the battle in the distance. He doesn’t want to miss out on another important battle. Not again.
“First we have to wash. Ourselves and our clothes. Those are orders from His Excellency the colonel in person.”
“But let’s be quick about it.”
Of course I have to wash both uniforms. A lieutenant isn’t a washerwoman. That’s what he has his servant for, which is me. Only now do I see how much dirt has found room on and in his uniform. Even the very fine lake sand can’t seem to dislodge it. It’s by no means an easy task. I’d much rather muck out ten stables than have to scrub a pair of white cavalry lieutenant’s pants. Without benefit of soap or cauldron or any of what you would normally require for a sound wash. Well, the dirt won’t go. Soak, therefore. I dunk the uniform in the shallow water, and place a large stone on top of it. The dirt will surely have to dissolve and leave the fabric. You’d think. It doesn’t, though. More sand treatment. But only up to a point. Because it looks as though the material is being rubbed away, and only the dirt survives intact. Such filthy, stained trousers really are a disgrace.
The distant rumbling is getting louder all the time, crashing and banging like some heavy thunderstorm. There seems to be something going on. And we, Lieutenant Count Lammersdorf and I, his servant, are once more not at the scene of the action.
Thank God! Although of course I don’t say so.
“That must be Moscow over there,” reflects the lieutenant.
“You could be right about that.”
The summer is pretty done up. In Russia it’s not like it is at home, anyway. The sun pushes itself through the last few days of it. Unenthusiastically, or even under protest. It’s certainly not prepared to shed any warmth. Unless it makes a bit of an effort, it’s not going to get our uniforms dry. I drape our pants across a bush in the sunshine. From time to time, a light, warmish wind blows by. What applies to our trousers applies to ourselves, too. We, too, need to lie and soak for a long time. The water is still tolerably warm. It’s stored up some of the warmth of July and August. It’s warmer in the water than it is outside, in the keen east wind. The skin takes a while to soften and start to resemble skin again. Konrad Klara can swim. He tells me it’s something he learned to do in the noble fishponds at home. I too, am able to keep my head above water, so we have a high old time splashing and jumping about like little children. Konrad Klara quite forgets himself and forgets the battle too. He whoops and splutters, and I forget about the battle myself. There’s a small island in the middle of the lake. Of course, we decide we have to swim to it. It turns out to be farther away than we thought. We come ashore panting, and then look back to the bank.
“It’s a damned long way! Doesn’t it look small.”
“It was fun, though, even if it was tiring.”
“Yes, it was fun all right! I’ve never swum this far in my life.”
“Hold on a minute. Are you sure you’re looking at the right bit of the bank?”
“Yes, quite sure.”
“I don’t believe you! Then our horses ought to be standing tethered to those trees. But they’re not there.”
With bad premonitions, we strike out for the bank.
The horses are gone.
“Did you tie them up somewhere else?”
“No! I’m sure it was here. Look, you can still see the hoofprints in the sand.”
“And the uniforms that you put out to dry on the juniper bush?”
“Gone as well!”
“Everything gone!”
“Our money too!”
Never in all my life have I had so much money as now. Only yesterday the paymaster caught up with us and gave us our back pay for six months. I got ten Albert thalers. At home, I could have bought an orchard or a meadow with that, and a couple of sheep, and, if prices were low, then a couple of cows as well. The lieutenant is even worse off than I am. He had a fortune with him. Over a thousand gulden. That’s a heck of a lot!
We run around the shore like two madmen.
Everything gone. Everything.
We have nothing at all. We’re standing there buck naked.
“Someone must have robbed us!”
“Cossacks or Bashkirs?”
“I don’t think so. The Cossacks would have waited for us and drowned us in the lake. A sneaky theft like that just isn’t their way of doing things.”
“But who was it, then?”
“Maybe some local farmers, or bandits.”
“Bloody war, having to run around stark naked!”
We hurriedly hide ourselves in some bushes, and watch the edge of the forest. In case Cossacks are around. Or Bashkirs, for that matter.
The plain is deserted. Nothing to be seen. But someone must have been there and picked up our horses and the uniforms with them.
And I took so much trouble with the laundry. Maybe the thieves would have left the lieutenant’s trousers if they’d still been all filthy.
I swear horribly.
The many cannons are still booming away in the direction in which apparently Moscow lies.
“My beautiful Arab horses,” whimpers Konrad Klara.
“How will we get back to the regiment?”
“It was half a day’s ride. Without horses, without clothes, barefoot. Impossible! We’ll never get back to the regiment.”
I could weep.
Konrad Klara does.
A weeping lieutenant. I wonder what the king of Wurttemburg would say to that? Or even Napoleon himself?
19
We wait till it’s almost dark. The great plain is deserted. Most likely the robbers took their departure through the forest and rode off beyond. Hopefully. Or else they’re still in the forest. Hopefully not. We couldn’t put up any sort of resistance. Just with our bare hands. Our weapons are gone too.
“No one around. No Cossacks. No Bashkirs.” We have to make the most of the gathering darkness. So that we remain unseen by Cossacks, Bashkirs, or any other people, for that matter. Naked as we are, we have every cause to feel shame. Even though we’re not to blame.
Barefoot and hungry, we set off on our way. It’s gotten damnably cold. Now the sun’s gone, there’s an icy wind out of the east.
“Straight from Siberia,” says Konrad Klara. “I expect it’s already blowing over ice fields there.”
“Siberia!” I exclaim. “Do you mean there’s yet another country beyond Russia?”
“Bound to be,” trembles Konrad. “And others beyond that, too.”
“All the things you know!” I envy Konrad Klara.
Konrad Klara is shaking with cold. In spite of the falling darkness, I can see that he’s all covered with goose pimples. His teeth are rattling and chattering.
I’m not too good myself. I could use a thick fur coat, like the estate manager’s wife had in Schonbronn. And warm socks and shoes and all those other things that keep a body warm. But we have nothing. Nothing whatever. Not even a handkerchief between us. Konrad Klara needs a lesson from me in how to blow your nose without one of those little kerchiefs. It’s an important lesson, because our noses are starting to dribble in the cold. The stable boys at home always snot themselves like that, and
the common soldiers do the same. They all of them blow their noses with their fingers. Has he never seen it done before, Konrad Klara?
“Adam Neve,” he says. “I’m really cold.”
“I am, too. Russia is a cold country. Even though summer can hardly be over. We’ll have to run to warm up.”
But Konrad Klara can’t keep it up for very long. He gets slower and slower, and starts to lag behind. His recent illness is still in his bones. His breath comes short and whistling.
I don’t like it. A farmhand from Morbach had that whistling in his lung once. He was very quickly suffocated by it. Or at any rate, he died from it. Konrad Klara’s panting and wheezing sounds a lot like that.
“I don’t want my lieutenant to die!” I quietly beg the Great One behind the birches and the infinite sky above. Maybe it helps. I have fared well with it in the past.
Did we come from here or from there? No idea. This Russia looks the same all over. Best thing is to head for the barking cannon. Stands to reason. Where there’s a battle, there’ll also be an army.
If only it weren’t so cold. We alternate between running and walking. The chill creeps up out of the ground like cold breath.
In Russia, a man isn’t made for naked living.
There’s no point. Konrad Klara can’t go any farther. My blood seems to be freezing too. We’ve gone as far as we can. We have to warm ourselves up now, in a hurry.
But how, without a fire?
There’s a little wood ahead of us.
“We’ll camp in there.”
“I’m freezing,” trembles Konrad Klara.
“You won’t freeze that quickly, Your Wellborn.”
“Don’t call me that always,” he says crossly.
The early evening has no stars. It doesn’t need any. The battle is still raging in the distance and lights up the whole eastern half of the sky. The armies are making their own light.
“Damned war,” I curse. Konrad Klara doesn’t contradict me. Instead, coughing hoarsely, he agrees, “Damned war,” and he shakes so hard his skin wrinkles.
I look around in the little wood. Not a soul in there. It’s safe to spend the night. I break off soft branches, pile old leaves into a heap on top of them, pull moss off the ground and layer it over the leaves. A few more branches on top to keep the whole thing in place. And then we slip under the little hill.
Konrad Klara continues to chatter a while longer. But before long he calms himself. His breathing comes regularly. We get warm in our little earth tent. We’ll survive the night.
The morning is quiet. No more sounds of the battle for Moscow. It seems to be over. The sun climbs out of a thick mist. It lights us with feeble autumn rays. The smoke from yesterday’s battle has robbed it of most of its strength. Even so, it has a little warmth left over for Konrad Klara and me. Hunger and thirst soon get us going.
No one to be seen. All morning not a soul. Once, a couple of red-clad Cossacks gallop past a long way off. Just in case, we press ourselves down to the ground. We’re not spotted. Who knows what Cossacks would do to a couple of naked enemies?
The battle really does seem to be over. The thunder from the cannons has completely stopped.
Hunger scratches at our stomachs. I’m ready to eat grass. The thirst is still worse. But we don’t drink anything. We’ve already experienced the consequences of doing that.
Late in the afternoon, we come to a village. I want to try to steal a couple of pairs of pants, and maybe something to eat and drink as well. Konrad Klara is opposed to stealing, but we both need something to wear. The door of the first house is bolted. The second likewise, it’s not possible to open any of the doors. I look for a tool with which to try and force one open. Just in time, I spot the group of men armed with clubs. They’re waiting for me in the next house. I hurriedly walk away. After a few yards, I start running.
How are we going to get hold of some trousers? If only we had money or something to offer in exchange!
“Oh, Adam Neve,” Konrad Klara says. “Don’t take it so hard. In the Bible, Adam and Eve were both naked as well. We shall just have to get used to it.” After a while, he adds: “If only it were a bit warmer.” And he coughs some more.
Konrad Klara won’t be able to stand much more of this naked living. He cools down so quickly. I keep thinking of the wheezing breath of the stable boy from Morbach.
Toward evening, we reach the edge of the great plain. A fine peaceful sunset lies over the country. At last we’ve reached our objective. We’ve managed to rendezvous with the army again. In the distance in front of us, there are soldiers covering a hill. They’re lying all over the slope, horses, too. Hundreds, thousands? Are they resting from the battle, or are they waiting for the next one to begin?
Cautiously, we approach them. We feel ashamed on account of our nakedness. But the men don’t pay us any attention. The whole area smells terrible.
What regiments do they belong to? Look at the uniforms!
“Ours?” Konrad Klara and I wonder, at exactly the same moment.
But we don’t see any Wurttemburgers. Only French, Westphalians, Prussians, and …
“Look, there, Adam Neve. Those are Russians, aren’t they?”
“Russians?”
“Beyond a doubt! Russian foot soldiers.”
What are Russians doing in the midst of Napoleon’s army?
“They’re all dead!” screams Konrad Klara.
And then I notice bloodied bodies, severed arms, heads blown off by cannonballs. Beside them, a ditch. Lots of arms and legs and whole bodies lying in it. Probably a doctor was working on them until a few moments ago. I feel chilled to the bone, and then a hot sweat comes over me. I can hardly speak.
“Oh, Konrad Klara,” I manage to say. “We’re on the site of yesterdays battle.”
Konrad Klara is shaking from top to toe.
“So many,” he groans.
He suddenly leans against me. He presses his face against my bare chest, and stands there a while, without moving. Then he leaps away.
Is he ashamed?
“Damned war!” shouts the young Lieutenant Count Lammersdorf.
I go up to him and drag him away from the corpses. The battlefield is too gruesome. Up on the hill, something is moving. Wolves are nosing around.
How many young men have been slaughtered here? Have all these soldiers let themselves be shot for the sake of Napoleon? Now they’re lying peaceably among the enemy, next to them and on top of them. Apparently, not everyone is dead. There’s moaning and wailing and screaming coming from a bloodied bundle. We can do nothing. What could we do? Away from this place. These scenes mustn’t dig too deeply into our memories. Otherwise they will remain with us as long as we live.
Amazing. In spite of the thousands of dead bodies all around me, I have a dreadful idea. There are so many trousers lying here, some bloody, some clean. Depending on whether the soldiers were shot in their upper or lower halves. All I need to do is take them away from a dead man. Simple.
Then I suddenly feel my belly heave. I sit down on an empty spot on the battlefield and vomit up half my stomach.
For his part, Konrad Klara can hardly walk, but he helps get me back on my feet.
Bare and naked we stumble about among the mutilated heroes.
I narrow my eyes to the merest slit. So that I don’t see everything. I’m only out for suitable trousers. Most of them are no use at all. They are slashed, holed, or sodden with blood. But here’s a pair that might do for my lieutenant. Their wearer has been shot in the chest. The trousers didn’t take any damage. Now’s not the time to hang around. Yes or no. Stay naked or rob the dead. I drop to my knees in front of the dead soldier, and pull at his trousers. I’m in a hurry. I want it to be over. Fortunately, it’s pretty dark. That way I can’t see the dead man’s face. The trousers are fashionably tight. I can’t get them over the shoes. So shoes off, too. They are good shoes. They might fit me. I try them on. They’re still warm. Why warm? The soldier twi
tches. He’s alive.
My head spins and everything goes black. I throw the shoes down and crawl away.
20
All around, it’s once again a chilly night. I can’t take much more. I’m freezing to death. Hunger. And thirst. Life is already making a large detour around me. And Konrad Klara is incapable of anything except shaking. He’s stopped speaking and is just staring into space. I wonder what’s to see there? The end? But before my end, I’d rather crawl up to a filthy hole and drink. Enough of this torture.
The dead soldiers on the hill and the severed arms and legs disappear in the darkness. But there are stirrings of life out there. Creeping shadows. Those are wolves. I fear for Konrad Klara. I sit right close to him and warm him a little. And he me. It makes barely any difference. Neither of us has any warmth to share, we’re both half frozen. And the wolves are coming nearer. I see glittering eyes, quite close now.
Soon it will all be over. I cling on to Konrad Klara.
A torch shines in my face.
“Here’s another survivor.” I hear someone shouting above me. “And another one.”
“Isn’t it an outrage,” says someone else. “They stole the uniforms off their backs. They’re half frozen to death.”
I am wrapped in a coat and carried off. Slowly, I warm up again. Someone has set me down beside a large fire. Konrad Klara is lying next to me.
Suddenly, I want to live again.
Later on, we are brought hot broth from a large cauldron. Or maybe it’s just herb tea. I don’t care. Anything would taste wonderful to me. But the drink has a miraculous effect. My thirst is gone, my hunger’s gone. Konrad Klara is lying stretched out in front of the fire. I think he’s even smiling.
21
Two days later, we’re both up and about, the lieutenant and me, his servant. A sergeant has been instructed by the colonel to get us both some uniforms. Never mind which. Soldiers can’t run around naked under someone else’s borrowed overcoat, after all. We’ve both been found uniforms that befit our rank. Konrad Klara has become a Portuguese lieutenant, while I am now a French private. I suppose there didn’t happen to be any Wurttemburg tunics available. It wouldn’t matter so much with the pants. Pants are pants. But the caps and helmets and insignia, the sashes across the breast and all the detail of a uniform, all that makes a difference. Neither uniform is exactly new. Soiled and grubby, to be precise. My French tunic has a scorch mark on the left shoulder, and I can only bring myself to slip into the trousers if I look the other way, or better, if it’s completely dark. I would never entrust my legs and behind to such filthy quarters under any other circumstances. Still, the nasty things are better than nothing at all, because it’s true that naked soldiers freeze faster than their uniformed fellows. I have the suspicion that our new gear was taken off dead men. On the back of the Portuguese tunic my lieutenant wears there’s a dark round bullet hole. The hole is fringed with marks of gunpowder scorch and dried blood. The Portuguese lieutenant must have been shot from behind.
