by Holub, Josef
Of our once proud regiment of mounted Jagers, all that remains is a feeble company of more dead than alive cavalrymen and a few spindly nags.
Apparently, there’s also a shortage of servants in the army. An elderly major insists he wants me in his service.
No, please, not for all the tea in China! I’m terrified. Then I would have to trade in my wellborn lieutenant. Unfortunately, there’s nothing I can do about it. Turn down the major? That would be insubordination, and I’d be shot for it. Now it all comes down to what Konrad Klara says.
“I’m not going to surrender my servant, the cavalryman Georg Bayh,” says Lieutenant Count Lammersdorf “Not under any circumstances!” It would take an express command, he tells the major, and even then he might for the first time in his life have the pleasure of disobeying.
I’m so happy. I could fling my arms around the lieutenants neck. Of course, I do no such thing, because between an officer and his servant, that’s out of the question. The world would end first.
The major is sore. He says he’s a count himself, and furthermore a long-serving senior officer decorated with the Croix d’Honneur, whose own servant had his head split open by a Cossack the day before yesterday at the battle of Borodino, leaving him short, and there wasn’t a single respectable servant in the whole regiment, except for the aforementioned cavalryman Bayh, who, in the natural order of things, should be with the senior officer, and not with some little baby officer who was still wet behind the ears.
There is a scene between the major and the lieutenant Finally, the youngest lieutenant in the Wurttemburg army gets to have his way. The colonel is his uncle, after all, and moreover, a sensible man. He decides the argument by not deciding it. No one gets the servant. Which again isn’t quite true, because everything is left more or less as it was. The colonel, after a brief word with the major general, promotes me to corporal. On account of particular bravery on several occasions, and with immediate effect. As a corporal, I can’t be anyone’s servant, neither a lieutenant’s, nor a long-serving major’s.
Clever. Konrad Klara and I continue to ride together in the regiment, not far behind the colonel. We’re pleased; the major is annoyed. Another one we both need to keep an eye on.
The war goes on.
Most of the regiments horses are lying on the side of the road somewhere, on a battlefield, or they’ve run off or been stolen, or they’ve wound up roasted over a campfire and eaten. I could weep when I remember the proud condition of the regiment as we moved out of Ludwigsburg, barely six months ago. And now! All gone.
Of course, the regiment has managed to pick up a few new horses. But they’re just puny little things. I’m sitting on one, a little steppe pony. It’s unkempt, short-legged, and shaggy. Probably used to be a Cossack or Bashkir mount before. It’s not much to look at, and a rider with long legs would have to keep pace with his feet, or else brake with them. But I’m still lucky in my horse. He’s so small that no one wants him to begin with. He doesn’t exactly look cut out for a cavalry regiment. Something so puny. But he’s a plucky little devil. If I show him the whip, he turns into a giant eagle and skims over the ground. He’s got a good heart too. After the first day together, we’re agreed, the little steppe pony and I: We belong together.
Konrad Klara has been given a bigger horse, but he has much more trouble with it. Maybe it’s sensed that he doesn’t like it. Of course, it’s nothing like the noble Arab that he is used to riding. I’m sure the animal can sense his aversion.
We are caught out by the Russians. They are firing down at us from up on a hill. Our regiment has walked into an ambush, as onto a plate. The horsemen scatter. They melt away before the cunning bombardment. The colonel doesn’t like that at all. He observes the situation for a while. Then he gets into a rage, and when he gets into a rage, he’s a man transformed. He turns his horse around and makes for the cannon. His decrepit regiment follows him. Eighty rickety untrained steppe ponies, with famished, sickly riders clinging to their backs. At their head, the colonel gallops straight at the enemy cannon. By the time the heavy cylinders can be pointed at the attackers, it’s too late, and they’ve been cut to ribbons. It’s the first time I’ve used my saber in anger. Each time I bring it down, I look the other way. So I don’t have to see any of the faces. A face might easily stick itself in my brain, and maybe I’d never get rid of it. Then I’d have to think of it, and ask myself why I had to chop at that particular human being.
But my bad conscience fades quickly. After a few blows, I feel used to smiting and killing. My own head has become strangely unfamiliar. On the inside it’s completely empty and feels nothing, while under the helmet, there’s a pounding in my temples like heavy artillery. I haven’t touched a drop, and yet I am completely sozzled. My lieutenant has very sad eyes. He’s swishing and slicing like a maniac. He rides right up to me, and bellows: “Damned war!”
Then I’m back to normal again, and I’m glad the lieutenant exists. But most of all, I’m glad Konrad Klara takes no pleasure in killing.
“Your Wellborn Konrad Klara,” I call back. “Look after yourself, and guard your life! You’ll have need of it in the future.”
He laughs, and fends off the saber thrust of a Russian like some old warhorse.
The regiment’s casualties are just one horse and three men. But even that’s more than war is worth.
Some French marshal watches our attack and is so impressed, he pulls the golden Legion of Honor off his chest that he got from Napoleon in person, to give it to the colonel. But the colonel looks at the marshal as contemptuously as if he were just one of many day laborers on his estate, gives his horse the spurs, and rides off. The marshal is bewildered. Then his eyes light on me, and because he takes me for a Frenchman in the uniform, he rides up to me. Is he going to give me his medal? That’s not allowed in any case. A common soldier isn’t allowed to receive such a thing. The marshal doesn’t catch me, anyway, because, like the lieutenant, I present my back and bottom to him and hare off after the colonel.
22
On the orders of some Napoleonic marshal or other, our regiment rides from morning till night. Like the rest of the Grande Armée, inasmuch as they’re mounted. Always in pursuit of victory and looking for a decisive engagement. But victory isn’t what it was, and the decisive battle doesn’t come.
“There’s Moscow up ahead!” the colonel says to his officers.
Where? Around the edge of the forest? No. Behind the next hill? Not that, either. The colonel just wants to encourage his regiment.
The troops need to be pumped up for battles and rage against their enemy. Otherwise they won’t fight properly. And they need to know where they’re going. Moscow is useful as a destination. The objective of this war. It beckons to us with its magnificence and its huge treasures. Every last man in the Grande Armée knows that.
But perhaps Moscow doesn’t exist, and Napoleon has simply made it up to keep his men in line.
But then the regiment canters out of a forest, and suddenly there’s Moscow at our feet.
Extraordinary. All the things there are in the world! An enormous city stretches from one side of the horizon to the other: the longed-for, oft-doubted, rich and sacred capital city of Russia. The one on whose account the Grande Armée has marched and ridden so many miles.
My heart starts to beat faster.
The dying rays of the sun are falling on the beautiful city. As far as I can see, all the streets are in dead straight lines, and it’s just one house after another. Most of the houses are wood, many of them have straw roofs. In amongst them there are some lofty stone buildings, and numerous golden church towers, sparkling onion domes with gold orthodox crosses. The sea of roofs shimmers peacefully under heaven’s light in the evening sun. Much too peacefully.
There’s no trace of the czar and his armies.
The colonel is annoyed.
“When are we going to have our battle?” he keeps asking. “Surely the czar will have to defend his
capital city! That’s what the form is. Are the Russians really so unfamiliar with the rules of war?”
The major, riding at his side, adds: “Every Russian is duty bound to give up his last drop of blood for such a city.”
But the Russians don’t give battle and don’t shed a single drop of blood for their Moscow. And the czar stays out of sight. He doesn’t do what Napoleon wants him to do. Apparently, he has a different view. At any rate, he won’t be told what to do.
French Guards move past us. Brazenly, they ride straight for Moscow. They are rested and well fed and presentable looking. Their uniforms have yet to be dirtied by any battle. Their horses step out lightly. As if it were the barracks yard or some parade in Paris. Napoleon’s lifeguards are a military feast for the eyes. In their midst is a squat little man in a gray uniform.
“Is that Napoleon?”
“Bound to be! Who else could it be?”
Is he really so ordinary? If he weren’t surrounded by those proud lifeguards, you wouldn’t give him a second look.
A soldier in the next regiment shouts out: “Huzzah!” Farther off, someone else calls: “Vive l’Empereur!”
In spite of myself, I feel gooseflesh going up and down my spine.
So that’s him, the renowned French emperor. The one before whom all Europe trembles.
“He will meet the czar at the city gates,” predicts the major. “The czar will capitulate, and the city elders will present the keys of the city to Napoleon. On a golden cushion, of course. That’s the way these things are done. And then there will be peace, immediately thereafter.”
My lieutenant is moved.
I always knew it: Konrad Klara doesn’t belong in any war. Certainly not in this one. He is much too softhearted.
“Your Wellborn Konrad Klara,” I say to him, “now we can go home soon. In another couple of hours, the war will be at an end.”
“Drop that Wellborn, will you!” Konrad Klara scolds me.
I feel happy. As never before in my life.
“There’ll be a triumphal procession,” I say, thinking aloud. “When we move into Stuttgart as victors, and our Very Highest Selfsame Majesty has us parade in front of his castle.”
I lose the thread of my thoughts. I wonder if the king is still so fat? Why wouldn’t he be? He never has to suffer hunger. And I’m sure he’s unacquainted with the runs. Not to mention pond water full of wriggling red worms.
In spite of my joy at the end to the war, I still manage to feel a little bit sad. It occurs to me that my lieutenant is bound for one place, and I am bound for somewhere else. The moment the war is over. Almost a shame.
Order from some French marshal: The Wurttemburg regiment is not to advance into Moscow. We are to remain on the heights at the edge of the broad-leaved wood in readiness.
A passing general says we have to shield the French emperor from possible surprise attacks. Or are we only to be admitted to Moscow once the city has been plucked bare? Perhaps by Napoleon and his Guards in person?
We bivouac on the heights. Apparently, it was Marshal Ney in person who chose us for this strategically important role. All around, sentries are set up. Who can say what cunning plans the Russians might have, in spite of the imminent peace?
So the regiment guards the road that leads down into the city. The cavalrymen set up camp and light fires, warm themselves, and gaze down at the city.
Nothing happens.
What about peace? We can hear and see nothing. The bells should be ringing, the soldiers cheering, cannons banging out the triumph. Trumpets should be blowing the command to the victory parade!
But nothing. Deathly silence.
Gradually, doubts start to come. The uncertainty feeds the oddest and craziest rumors. Will the czar make peace, once the city is in Napoleons hands? Or is the war not yet over? Maybe there are complications in the peace negotiations; Napoleon is said to be insatiable. A few old skeptics don’t believe this is victory. Victory doesn’t look like this, they complain. And Russia can’t be conquered, in any case. The country is much too big. Even for Napoleon. The little upstart has bitten off more than he can chew.
The city turns gray. With the last of the sun’s rays, the colors disappear. The gold on the towers and minarets pales and then completely disappears in the dusk.
Suddenly, the evening sky brightens up again, this time from the direction of the city. A different light is boiling up from there. Fire is flickering up through roofs, smoke billows and swells into clouds. The dying light of day hurriedly turns into firelight. The wooden houses and their straw roofs are well alight. Each one torches its neighbors. Or is some devil setting fires? The whole of Moscow is suddenly ablaze, even the part of it that is on the opposite side of the river, which is called the Moskva.
I am so amazed, I forget to breathe, and gulp in the air I need. What a terrible, magnificent sight! Has any man ever seen such a thing? “Nero,” says Konrad Klara. But I don’t know any Nero.
So much fire all at once! As if the sun had fallen. Fear and horror. What a shame for the beautiful city! God be merciful to her. All her riches are burning.
The fire oppresses my soul. I’m sure the others are feeling no different. They must guess, if they don’t know, that peace looks different. Not like this, for sure.
The colonel gets on his horse. He peers intently into the spreading sea of flames. Horse and rider are each tense. Then they gallop off. The major wants to ride after him, but the colonel waves him away.
Bad premonitions wrap themselves like iron bands around my chest. Konrad Klara, too, is looking distressed by the sight of the world on fire. Sad and anxious, he says: “Victory and peace are going up in flames down there.”
The colonel doesn’t return till midnight. He looks tired and exhausted, and he stinks of smoke and soot. Without any elaborate explanations, he assembles a detachment of men. The troupe, as the French call it, is to bring up supplies, under the command of a sergeant.
“Hurry!” orders the colonel. “There’s not much time. Some of the burned and burning buildings have stores in their cellars,” he says. “These are all being plundered now. We must not be the last.”
The sergeant has to set off with his men right away.
“And get hold of some schnapps!” the colonel calls out after the detachment. “So that we can drown our sorrows. Our future is not something to be contemplated in a sober state.”
Then he summons his officers to him. The entire regiment is curious and clusters around him. He doesn’t send anyone away.
“Gentlemen!” he barks out in his arrogant manner. “There are no Russians in Moscow. The only living beings in the streets are beggars, drunks, and stray dogs. The city is burning. It appears it has been set on fire by Russian agents. The houses and the main stores have been destroyed so that they don’t afford us any winter quarters. Napoleon has conquered ruins.”
The colonel stops to draw breath. “Gentlemen,” he continues. “Unless we set off for home immediately, we are lost. It may be too late as it is. It is to be hoped that Napoleon recognizes the dreadful situation and acts accordingly.”
“But will he bite the bullet?” wonders the crestfallen major.
“He has no other choice,” says the old staff captain. “The czar wouldn’t dream of suing for peace, once he’s sacrificed his capital.”
The colonel nods, lost in his thoughts.
The old staff captain heaves a sigh that seems to come all the way up from his toe caps.
The night is ghostly and restless. No one sleeps. The whole regiment is mesmerized by the spectacle of such fiendish destruction. The wind drives into the embers and spins them on to intact buildings. One house lights another. Neighbor ignites neighbor. Sheaves of sparks fly up into the black each time a building collapses.
I can’t bear to look at the burning city anymore. I feel as though my eyes are burning like the fire in front of me.
23
Maybe our regiment is the last that still car
ries out orders. We have been told to go east, to one of the Moscow suburbs, and secure the eastern approaches to the city. But who are we supposed to stop? There are no enemy Russians to be seen anywhere. They have all fled the city, gone to Siberia. Or could it be that they’re massing on the other side of the city?
The rest of the Grande Armée meets no resistance at all as it enters Moscow from all sides. In wild bunches. There is almost no organization anymore, all forms of obedience have been suspended. The soldiers have turned into treasure seekers and booty hunters. They want to get rich in a hurry, to take as much of it as possible back home with them, so that the war pays off a little bit. They poke around among the scorched and smoking beams, looking for cellar entrances and hidden treasure troves. Clothes and household utensils lie spread out on the streets. The looters are wallowing in flour and sugar and fat, they destroy and spoil everything they can’t use or don’t want to carry. Only Napoleon’s lifeguards preserve discipline. They don’t get mixed up in the orgies of destruction. Our colonel grumbles that the Guards aren’t interested in small potatoes. They have been shown richer pickings in the Kremlin and in the princely houses around the center.
