by Holub, Josef
And on the other side is safety. Probably.
Where is Napoleon? He and his Guards must still be on this side. Apparently, he’s taken personal charge of the bridge-building. I hope they’ll be finished soon. I’m sure he’ll be the first to safety.
As for the others, I wonder how many of us will make it? The Russians will quickly get in range of the bridges. The earlier you go, the better your chances.
A troop of French rides along the bank. Elegant and proud. As if it were maneuvers in peacetime. I wonder if they’re Imperial Guards? Surely. There aren’t many other such fine-looking troops left. They’re up to something. Aha, they want to mount a flank attack on the hill with the Russian howitzers. To take them from the back.
That’s a daring move. But absolutely necessary. The cannons are disrupting the bridge-building. They pull off their risky maneuver. The Russians are so surprised that they abandon their cannons and run off. But before the French can spike all the guns, a group of Cossacks gallops up and drives them back. Four or five of the Guards are hacked to pieces with sabers. Their riderless horses run with the others for a while. Then they drift off, trot now here, now there, and then come to a stop.
Magnificent horses.
“If we had those!” My heart is beating up into my head. “Look at them.”
The same idea has occurred to Konrad Klara.
“Come on! We’ll catch them.”
Other men have also spotted the horses. They run up to them from several sides.
As if by miracle, we manage. Or is it that horses just like me? Who knows. At any rate, they walk trustingly up to me. We quickly select the two best-looking ones. Then we’re up in the saddle. We ride back and forth a little, to introduce ourselves to the animals.
A triumph.
“And now we’re off!”
“The only thing left to wish for now is that we belonged to the Imperial Guards,” says Konrad. “Then we’d have a good chance of being among the first to cross the bridge with Napoleon.”
“But we’re not in the Guards.”
“Well, you’re almost French. At least you’re wearing a French uniform.”
“But you’re not,” I reflect. “And I’m not going anywhere without you.”
“Here’s a thought!” exclaims Konrad Klara. “There are some dead Frenchmen up by the cannons. With nice uniforms. We just need a cap and a cloak apiece.”
There’s nothing left to think about. We chase up the hill in a mad gallop. The Russian cannoneers are just returning to their cannons. They don’t pay any attention to two horsemen. They’ve got both hands full with their cannons. They’re so dead set on destroying the bridge, it’s for us to take advantage.
Now to the dead Frenchmen! We can’t bring ourselves to take off their cloaks. But a couple of caps are lying there. We pick them up, and quickly ride off.
32
The first bridge is completed.
A mob of men is milling around in front of it. Sounds of cornets. The Guards assemble. With their horses and sabers, they clear space for themselves. They bodily push back the other fugitives. Some cannons and a few intact Polish units are all they permit to come up alongside themselves.
Now’s the time.
We force our way through the crowd on horseback, counting on the fear and respect for the Guards. I hope we’re right. Yes, the men shrink back. Our Guards’ caps work wonders.
Konrad is nervous. If we don’t make it through the crowd on time and meet up with the Guards, then we’re done for. Only with Napoleon and his mighty Guards do we have a chance of getting safely across, with luck. As individuals, we’re powerless. No one would respect us. Maybe we would even fall victim to the rage and resentment of the crowd.
There. The first of the Guards is riding over the bridge. This is it! Just as well that Konrad Klara speaks French. He swears and scolds the men at the top of his voice. I copy him, but while the sounds I make don’t sound German, they don’t sound particularly French, either. Still, they do the trick. A narrow channel clears in front of us. Slowly, we push our way along. The Russians are getting in range of the new bridge. For the moment, the cannonballs are either dropping into the Beresina, or else smashing into the waiting crowds. But for how much longer? Soon, they’ll strike the bridge. Konrad Klara is yelling and swearing. We’re almost there. It’s not much farther. I can already hear the clatter of hooves on the planks. A carriage rattles past, probably with Napoleon in it. Or maybe he’s not, and it’s just a clever decoy. It could be that the emperor’s in an ordinary uniform and riding somewhere in the midst of his Guards. Everything’s possible. The pressure around the bridge gets stronger all the time. The Guards won’t be able to hold the others back for very much longer.
“Attendez! He!” We wave our Guards’ caps and yell. At last someone notices us. Of course, the French take us for a couple of tardy fellows from the regiment, who like to cut things fine. They ride up to us with sabers drawn.
So we manage to get to the bridge in time and cross the Beresina with Napoleons Guards.
On the eastern side of the river, there are now the most indescribable scenes. Once the Guards have passed, the military police who were keeping order at the bridgehead are simply thrown into the river. The hemmed-in crowd surges onto the narrow crossing. Everyone wants to be the first to get across. There’s the most ruthless pushing and shoving to get onto the boards. Anyone who loses his footing is lost. He’s simply trampled underfoot and ends up in the river. Whoever’s pushed to the side of the bridge falls in. The screams of the crushed and drowning men mingle with pitiful prayers, with curses, and with the crashes of the Russian artillery. Konrad Klara slumps on his horse in horror. He keeps wiping his eyes with his sleeve. Is he trying to brush away the hateful scenes? We have never seen the like. It’s an absolute hell on earth.
Many thousands are drowning in the icy cold waters. The Russian gunnery is getting closer and closer to the bridge.
We are among the lucky ones who are riding away from the war with Napoleon.
To freedom.
Or so we think.
There are no Russian troops on this side of the Beresina. Not yet. They’re busy surrounding the rest of the fleeing Grande Armée on the opposite side and destroying them. We hear the banging of their cannons for a long time to come.
It turns colder again. Arctic cold from Siberia displaces the warm air of the last three days. It’s still only the beginning of December. It’s just as well we didn’t throw away our fur coats.
The Guards are in a tearing rush. They want to be in Vilnius in five days. Vilnius is the only large-sized town with a regular French garrison. A town with every amenity with proper billets and full storehouses.
The first chance we have, we part company with the French. Before the Guards notice the deception. They didn’t notice anything yet. Konrad warns me not to open my mouth. I’m to point to my mouth and mime dumbness. Konrad speaks French. At home, he speaks more French than German. As is the way with the aristocracy. Particularly when there are visitors, the style is French and cultured. I am proud of him.
We slip away into the darkness, without having seen the great Napoleon. A pity, but then again, never mind! The Guards don’t notice our disappearance. They are distracted by the cold. They are riding out in all directions, looking for bits of wood. They take everything they find. They drag whole houses along after them. They tie the beams to their horses, and drag them across the snow back to their campsite.
We join a group of Prussians. We have to join someone. Our own regiment no longer exists. The last of them must have drowned in the Beresina. The Prussians have had it up to here with Napoleon. Their officers wish him to the devil. They don’t want to die for that madman. Well-mounted and reasonably well-armed, they are heading for Vilnius. They avoid larger troops of Cossacks, while smaller units or bands of armed peasants steer clear of them in turn. But the Prussians have one great disadvantage. Their uniforms are no good in the cold. Napoleon
was only planning on a brief summer campaign, and the Prussians left too late to get warm clothing. They don’t want civilian gear. That doesn’t go with the Prussian pride in their uniform. On cold nights, they shelter in remote villages or farmhouses. There’s usually a bit of wood there for a fire. That way, they and we are spared more casualties from frostbite. As long as there’s a fire going.
But the war isn’t over yet. It follows us wherever we go.
Whoever thought that by crossing the Beresina, we would be over the worst was in for a big disappointment. Kutusov himself, the tough Russian marshal, has crossed the Beresina and set off after the vanquished army with a huge force. There is no time to rest or linger.
We, too, need to get our skates on. The Prussians are too slow for us. Every night, they spend a long time looking for warmth and shelter. But there is almost nothing to be had. The whole region has been burned and destroyed, and firewood is becoming increasingly scarce. But without fire, the Prussians are doomed. The cold puts a merciless end to any life. The Prussian captain is freezing the most. He doesn’t show it, but I see him secretly eyeing Konrad’s fur and mine. We really have to be on the lookout.
On our second night with the Prussians, I have an awful nightmare. Krauter has turned up again. Unbelievable! That fiend is standing with a horrible smirk right in the middle of the campfire and extinguishing it with his piss. And suddenly it turns icy cold. So cold that even my thick fur coat no longer warms me. If I am cold, then Konrad Klara beside me must be cold as well. A violent rage shakes me. I want to hurl myself at Krauter, that miscreant! Then I wake up. Krauter isn’t pissing on the fire, because Krauter isn’t there. But it’s still cold. Very cold. And no wonder — the fire’s gone out. The sentry went to sleep and didn’t keep the fire banked up with wood. I blow on the embers. Except for a few pathetic sparks, too weak to light anything, the fire’s gone cold. No, there in one corner is a last glowing core. Konrad crawls out of his fur. Together, we puff on the few remaining embers, urging them to catch again. With a lot of effort and persuasion, a little warmth spreads to the sleeping Prussians. But the warmth causes no stir of life. Only the captain still moves, sits up, and stares in front of him. The others remain rigid. They won’t be thawed out. No — one suddenly leaps up and stomps out into the night, screaming. He must have lost his mind. He doesn’t return.
33
After four days, we are in Vilnius. The French have already gone, the storehouses are empty, and the local population hostile. Anything the Guards didn’t take with them, the inhabitants helped themselves to. Only people with a great deal of money can afford to buy anything. And we don’t have any money.
After one night trembling with cold under the city walls, our horses are gone. The leather harness with which we tied them up was cut. Our fur coats weren’t taken, though. The following day, we slip into a little hut in an outlying district. The old woman inside takes pity on us poor young fellows. It’s reasonably warm in the hut, and we have a lot of sleep to catch up on. After two days, the old woman wakes us. She gestures animatedly with her hands and feet, and explains that the advance guard of the Russian army is already moving into the other end of the town. It’s high time we fled.
But already it’s too late. The Cossacks have ringed the city. All loopholes are closed. Vilnius has become a trap. Its buildings are full of sick and mangled soldiers. Before they left, the French forced the townspeople to billet their wounded. Now, the citizens are getting their own back. The sick and injured French are simply pushed out of doors and windows. The misery is indescribable.
We have burned our Guards’ hats. We know from hearsay that there is no love lost between the Cossacks and the French. There never was much to begin with, and then there’s the matter of Moscow. In the eyes of the Russians, Napoleon is responsible for the destruction of their beloved capital. It doesn’t therefore seem advisable to us to be caught wearing the hated uniform.
The old woman is like a kind grandmother. She provides us with shirts, trousers, and tunics. All of them too small. Maybe she once had sons or grandsons whom these things fitted. The trousers end just below my knees. So the old woman wraps linen rags around our bare legs. We look like a couple of dirty urchins sitting with the woman as the Cossacks search the house, looking for enemies. They don’t find anything in the poor wooden hut to cause them to suspect. The poverty is too glaring, and the pair of us don’t look to them like enemy soldiers. Just as well the Cossacks either didn’t spot or didn’t think about the fur coats. Then they would have realized that they don’t belong in such a place.
We feel well guarded and sheltered with our Russian grandmother.
The world is mad. Things happen that you wouldn’t have believed possible.
Suddenly, they’re back. Konrad’s noble Arab horses. Unmistakable! They gallop past the entrance to the hut. This time they’re harnessed to a sleigh. They’re haring out of Vilnius. The sleigh has one single occupant. Krauter! It’s bound to be. He lashes out at the horses with his whip. From time to time, he cranes his neck to look behind him. And now we see why the sleigh is being driven at such speed. A band of Cossacks is at his heels, the distance between them diminishing steadily. Slowly but surely, they’re gaining on him. Closer to him all the time.
We watch the chase excitedly. “This is it for him!” I say. “I hope they get him.” It sounds very spiteful, and I mean it too. I don’t care what happens to Krauter. Konrad Klara adds in sorrowful tones: “This is it for my horses as well.”
In wild pursuit, they race across the white expanse outside the city. The sleigh in front, and the Cossacks behind.
A few of the Cossacks have overtaken Krauter now. Probably they want to head him off. They’re almost successful in that too. But the sleigh charges on. The horses are whipped. The advantage grows again. It’s a splendid and knuckle-whitening spectacle. A real contest.
“My horses,” says Konrad Klara, not sure whether to be proud or to lament. The Cossacks don’t give up. Once again, they close in on the sleigh. Very close! They have Krauter in a pincer movement. This time he won’t get away.
“Bravo!” I call out.
“For shame …” mourns Konrad Klara.
A dusting of snow from the other side. A troop of horsemen. The horses bigger. Not Russians, for sure. Are there any more well-armed French units around?
“Poles!” says Konrad Klara.
The Cossacks veer off. Probably they don’t want to get in a fight over one sleigh. Most likely, they’re going back for reinforcements. That’ll take a while. By the time they’ve arrived, it will all be over. The Poles and the sleigh with Krauter in it move slowly along the horizon, a sprinkling of dots. They won’t be caught.
Konrad Klara is happy that his horses have managed to get away from the Cossacks. He doesn’t even mind that Krauter gave them the slip. He probably doesn’t have it in him to really hate someone. Not even Krauter. I’m disappointed.
34
Vilnius is sealed, the Russians are letting no one in and no one out. For the moment, we’re not in danger. But how long will that be the case? It can change from one day to the next. The old woman won’t betray us or throw us out, but we’re going to have to live off something. We have no supplies, and we can’t buy anything, either. The little that the nice old granny has we mustn’t continue to eat up.
Twice already we’ve tried to get out and promptly turned back. No success. The Russians are mounting patrols round the clock. There are no gaps and no way through. Not at night, even. For the past few nights, the sky has been clear and bright, and the moon about twice as big as we’d wish it to be, shining on the snowy fields around the city. There’s no way we can sneak out across them. Any sign of life on that paper-white surface will be detected right away. We need fast horses to get us out of the city.
We ponder the various possibilities. What can we do to get food for ourselves? Work? Without knowledge of Russian? That won’t be possible. We’d be identified right away as en
emies in hiding or — even worse — as spies. That would be the end. Begging? But most people have nothing here themselves, and the ones that do don’t give to beggars. There’s only stealing left.
“Not again,” moans Konrad Klara. “I don’t hold with stealing. I’d rather starve!”
“So the little blue blood is too delicate to steal,” I sneer. “Well, where else are we going to get anything from? What are we going to live off? We’ll just go under.”
“What did you call me? Blue blood?”
“Yes, blue blood!” I repeat crossly.
Whereupon one word leads to another, and for the first time there’s a big silence between us. All day long we don’t talk to each other. We avoid each other, insofar as that’s possible in a not very big hut. By late evening, we’ve used up our ill temper. We’re getting along again. And then we head out together to steal bread, beets, or whatever it might be. One of us goes here, the other there. We both come home empty-handed. It appears that stealing under such difficult circumstances is something that requires practice. Konrad Klara seems not to have any talent for it at all, and I’m not that good, either. Vilnius has been picked clean, and those people that have anything at all guard their possessions more closely than they would their souls. There’s nothing left for simple thieves.
What now?
“We have to get out of Vilnius.”
“Definitely.”
“But how?”
The old woman senses our perplexity. She furrows her already creased brow a little more, reflects a little, and then with her mouth and her feet, she makes the clopping sound of horses. Because we look at her doubtfully, with her right hand she makes the apparently international mime for theft.
