by Shlomo Kalo
They carried on walking over the bare field, with a unified rhythm, as required by the work of sowing, with a lightness not of this world, in utter silence, advancing towards the eastern end of the field, in other words – directly towards me.
It was a night of stars and a crescent moon, and the light of these was enough to take in the thick, black and tall shapes, doing their work with skill and without interruption. They paid no attention to their surroundings and did not sense the tight ambush closing around them, but walked further into the trap with every extra step.
The signal was given – the soldiers sprang forward at once, as one man, torches blazing in the hands of the torch bearers, and bayoneted rifles cocked, aimed from all sides at the black, thick shapes.
They, as it turned out, were taken utterly by surprise, and froze where they stood, hands and arms hanging limply by their sides and their light stepping, like the choreographed stepping of dancers on the stage – brought to an abrupt end.
I approached them with measured tread. Yefimy was close behind me, in his left hand a gigantic torch, and in his right – a drawn sword gleaming in the mysterious light of the night, like a menacing flame.
When I stood within half a cubit of the "devils", I looked into the rather bemused, but radiant faces – of three monks who had come down from their monastery on the hill to uphold the duty of secret charity. They had ploughed the field of the destitute widow, and as the time for sowing arrived – they came to sow it, with seed of the finest quality, adhering to the principle "The duty we have started – we must finish". No doubt they were also planning to bring in the harvest in the fullness of time.
The incident aroused endless wonderment. The whole village was in a ferment.
The silent monks, realizing that a life was at stake, authorized the novice-middleman to explain to us their actions and intentions. Needless to say, the whole story, word for word, was passed on to the elegantly bearded village elder, and he passed it on to his mujiks. As a result of all this a festival was held on Holy Sunday in which a number of mujiks took part, still looking stunned, confused and most of all – ashamed, and with them soldiers of my unit and that novice who was allowed, apparently, to involve himself in the affairs of this world, while waiting to take his final vows.
And out of the strong came forth sweetness – the peasants stopped fearing and hating the monks, but treated them with respect and were happy to greet them, while still keeping some distance, and most important of all – they began contributing generously towards their monastery.
The widow rescued from the fire donated her meager possessions, down to the last penny, to the monastery, but the abbot refused point-blank to accept the donation, and instead he gave feather-filled quilts, his own handiwork, to her and to all the members of her family, in readiness for the winter – harsh and long-lasting in these places. There was also a whip-round on her behalf among members of the unit, and we all contributed generously until the widow did not know herself for the joy that filled her heart, and for the flood of gratitude that swamped her like a stormy sea, and she spent days and nights in the local church, praising the name of God and extolling His grace and thanking Him with all her heart and might, as it was clear to her – that He and only He was the one savior, who turned the tables and brought her out from slavery to the fear of death and to the malice of men’s hearts – to the freedom of the light of His blessed and all-conquering love.
Finally, the young woman swore a solemn oath, that when the last of her children came of age and no longer needed her – she would enter a convent and become a nun for all the remaining days of her life, which would be dedicated to God, and to God alone, to do His holy will and dwell in Him, praising Him and praying to Him and thanking Him, with pure heart and gladsome mind.
So ended another strange episode of deluded human intelligence, seeking to expose beneath the mouse, a black and menacing mountain.
THE TRAIN
Shortly after the incident just described, I was stationed with my crack troops on the new Russian frontier, a frontier that bit out a sizable chunk of pure Russian territory, decisive proof of the short-sightedness of leaders and statesmen of all kinds, steering the ship of state straight from disaster to disaster. I tried to protest, i.e. I put pen to paper and said it was better not to occupy foreign territory, as such an act of occupation always brings ruin to the occupier, both from a national-economic viewpoint and from the viewpoint of education, for the future – and I adduced decisive unequivocal proofs from human history, written in blood.
At first I was answered with a few cold words, which one of the minions of the high-and-mighty leader was kind enough to send. When I repeated the letter writing process, undeterred, I was rebuked and finally – my letters were returned to me not even opened.
I stopped wasting paper, already a precious commodity, and time, which was even more precious, and tried to establish humane relationships with the local populations, those assiduous seekers after peace, relationships based on mutual respect.
From this point of view, it seems to me, I scored some far from negligible achievements which made an impression on both sides of the line: the warlike spirit of my troops was reduced to the minimum, finally reaching a blessed state of zero, while I provided them with a model; fear, suspicion and flight into the interior on the part of the locals were erased as if they had never been, and wherever you turned you saw only happy faces, smiling at one another, and the people behind them competing to provide one another with more reliable service.
This achievement, which to this day I am proud of, greatly annoyed the authorities on both sides of the "new Russian border" and government ministers, on this side and that, sent hurried and portentous proclamations to those under their sway, in different languages but conveying the same message: "No collaboration with the enemy!", citing all the laws and the sub-sections promising the most severe of punishments to anyone not obeying the official proclamation.
I gave instructions that no attention was to be paid to the characteristically immature response of the men in power who had the sensitivity of wood, and all were to continue the admirable practice of displaying human superiority over childish and potentially disastrous narrow-mindedness. As a result of this, a secret inquiry was hurriedly conducted by the counter-espionage department of the general staff, known by the nickname of "the murderous mole", and when it became clear beyond any doubt that the one cause behind this shameful "collaboration", and its clear and vigorous encouragement by an emphatically personal model – was "that Baron" – as they called me in those days – it was decided at the highest levels to transfer me to another point on the front, where the defenders were being sent home soon after their arrival in makeshift coffins. Before this childish scheme could be put into operation – it so happened that some kind of train with sealed carriages became stuck in the zone under my control, and could not move any further on account of lack of fuel. The destination of the train was unexpected, and in view of the wartime conditions, somewhat exceptional – the very heart of the mighty Russian empire, its ancient capital of Saint Petersburg. The transit orders given to the driver were also very strange; signed by a chief minister they called upon all commanders "to make a supreme effort" not to delay the train even for a minute, "whether circumstances permit or not!" It was our duty to equip it with everything needed to enable it to carry on its journey with maximum speed, to make the train-driver’s job easier and obey all his orders as if they came directly from him (the chief minister) – and all of this – without taking any interest in the cargo, or daring to open one of the sealed carriages.
Because of this hold-up, I had to come and inspect the situation, with a view to making a "supreme effort" in the words of the transit order, and enabling the train to carry on with its journey "without a minute’s delay, whether circumstances permit or not!" And how is it possible to obey such a command if circumstances do not permit?
I didn’t ask myself many ques
tions since, over many years of experience of close contact with authority, I have learned how to cope with it and with its categorical expectations, i.e.– doing what honest intellect recommends, utterly ignoring exclamation marks and lists of punishments however accurately cited, even those arranged alphabetically, and numerically.
And indeed, honest intellect told me that the train had to be extricated, that even if it were a train like any other, stuck in any corner, the blockage of an important transport artery, and unfortunately, in those times there were no alternative routes available – would inevitably lead to disaster, for the passengers, the driver, the dispatchers, the responsible authority in that zone and also – for the whole nation and perhaps even the whole world.
I rolled up my sleeves, checked and double-checked, with the thoroughness that has been the hallmark of all the Munchausens, from ancient times to the present day, the cause of the undisputed breakdown, and I soon came to the unequivocal conclusion, it wasn’t the fuel that was to blame, although it was in short supply, but the steam boiler, constructed shortly after the invention of the steam engine by Stephenson, had split into two equal and aesthetically pleasing halves, cracking the coal furnace in the process and thereby putting the locomotive out of action.
There was an urgent need to change the locomotive, and this was an impossible task, one which, in the language of the proclamation, "circumstances did not permit."
There were no locomotives to be found in any of the industrialized states which for the past three years had been playing the game of war, that had not been drafted into the noble and patriotic effort, and were not being exploited to the full for transportation to and from the front. Furthermore, most of the locomotives that had played an active part in this aristocratic game were mortally injured and new ones were not being built, at least – not at the required rate, not even at the rate they were built in peace-time.
I cabled the war minister of that time and reported on the impossible situation, and immediately received a reply written in pure soldierly jargon: "No locomotives. But do the impossible and just make sure the train moves! Failure to comply with this direct command will put you in front of a firing squad without any need for trial or legal process. By order. The Minister."
So, there was an explicit threat of execution if this mysterious train did not continue its journey.
I inspected it again methodically. There were no goods wagons and the train consisted of just three passenger carriages, with occupants no less mysterious than the train itself, huddled behind windows with the black blinds obstinately lowered. No one even stepped down to relieve himself.
I had no choice. I had to act – and at once.
First of all I gave orders for the uncoupling of the venerable locomotive from the carriages. The next task was to move it down the slope and off the rails – this was done to my full satisfaction, the locomotive gathered speed and with a youthful, heart-warming leap, left the rails and landed in an empty field without turning over. I had a booth erected over it, acting on the supposition that some museum might at some time take an interest in it, and pay the impoverished inhabitants of that region a fee for preserving it in its original condition.
Immediately after this I ordered my men to attach the piston driving the gleaming wheels to the rear section of one of the best guns in the battery. In place of the regular train driver, I put on the little platform beside the gun, which had become a "gun on rails", its original crew, and the two wagons designed to carry the coal and usually linked to the locomotive – I loaded with shells.
My idea, as I am sure you have already figured out, like all strokes of genius, was simplicity itself – by harnessing the recoil and the muzzle blast of the gun, powerful forces by any reckoning, it was possible to move the train at a reasonable speed – certainly no less and in fact rather more than – the speed provided by coal.
I calculated, with the mathematical precision for which I’m renowned, the motive power of each and every shell, and came up with a time of two minutes and forty-eight seconds, plus one thousandth or two thousandths of a second, for the driving time of each individual shell. To reach its destination, the train needed four thousand, eight hundred and fifty-four shells and a hundredth of a shell. Instead of the hundredth, which wasn’t easily to be detached from a whole shell, I made do with three regular hand-grenades. The operating crew was given strict instructions to aim the gun so that the salvoes would land in uninhabited areas, such as wadis, swamps, garbage heaps and pits. A detailed map was supplied on which the permitted targets for firing were clearly highlighted.
Everything was duly hitched up behind the gun-locomotive, and I was about to give the starting signal, when someone from inside the sealed carriages sent a message through his assistant asking me if I would be kind enough to come and engage in some important conversation.
I complied, with the aristocratic courtesy that, as is well known, has flowed in my blood-stream since the days of our Biblical fathers, and according to the explicit invitation of that passenger, entered the sealed carriage.
He received me in the forward carriage, in person, although his assistant pointed to other passengers, male or female, or both together.
A man of short stature, impressively bald – from forehead to nape, with a genial smile broadening his lips and sparkling in his astute eyes.
He held out a firm hand and introduced himself with a strong Russian accent:
"Vladimir Ilyich Lenin."
I shook his outstretched hand with the same steadiness with which he shook mine.
"I wanted to ask Citizen Leutenlieb of the esteemed House of Munchausen," he began with emphatic courtesy – not stiff, and yet retaining some distance – "What in his opinion is the thing that will most benefit a people that is ignorant but pure of heart and with golden dreams?"
Without the slightest hesitation, glad of the opportunity given to me to offer sound advice to a man of refined manners, someone capable of understanding the wise counsel that he happens upon, on his way, I declared with all the dignity and seriousness required by the circumstances:
"A people that is ignorant but whose heart is pure and whose dreams for the future are dreams of gold – must adhere to three essential things in order to realize itself and make its dreams a reality!"
"And they are?" my interlocutor asked impatiently, his slightly slanting eyes lighting up with repressed vitality.
"The first thing," I began with certain portentousness, intending that my words would penetrate deep into the consciousness of the questioner, knowing as I did that Russians are impressed by a degree of solemnity – "is to learn!" I paused for effect, appraised him with a sympathetic look and added: "The thing that comes next, and is of no less importance," another emphatic pause and sympathetic appraisal – "is to learn!"
"And the third and last thing," I continued in the same tone, "is quite obviously – to learn!"
My interlocutor appreciated at once the genius of my friendly advice, and without hesitation he took a pen and a notebook from those laid out on the table in front of him, jotted down my words, then asked for clarification.
"To learn what?"
"The truth."
"Which truth is that?" he asked.
"Love!" I declared.
He scrutinized me from head to foot, held out his hand to me again without a word and finally he said:
"That I am not prepared to accept because I have never experienced it until now and I don’t recognize it." I expressed my appreciation of his sincerity and added that in the final analysis, if a man wants to approach love and begin to recognize it, all he needs to do is to stop acting unjustly.
And indeed, about a month later, the man quoted me, word for word, at the most turbulent assembly that this ageing world has even known, the assembly that determined his fate, and the fate of all of us, following which the Bolshevik Party came to power in Greater Russia and changed its name to the Soviet Union. At the head of this Bolshevik Part
y, as everyone knows, stood that strange man who was briefly my guest at that remote frontier outpost, in the closing stages of the blood-soaked First World War – Vladimir Ilyich Lenin.
It is remembered, that at that fateful assembly he declared: "There are three things that we must do: learn, learn and learn!" – without mentioning my name and without any reference at all to the supplementary issues of truth and love.
As regards the train itself, it completed its journey in record time, at an awesome clip far exceeding the speed of sound, striking fear and panic into the hearts of all those saw or heard it. The echo of the virtually continuous gunfire disturbed the repose of all living creatures within a radius of many kilometers. There were some people who claimed it was a phantom, while others dubbed it "the Devil’s train". One way or the other no one was injured, since the gun was properly aimed and scored bull’s-eyes on the four thousand eight hundred and fifty-four targets assigned to it.
My trusty gunners tried to spare a few shells, or at the very least – those paltry hand-grenades, but without success. My calculations, as usual, were characterized by incomparable precision.
For the return journey the doughty gunners had no shells and no gun to give them motive power; in spite of everything it had been damaged by the continuous firing, and the celebrated steel of the barrel-casing had buckled into various interesting shapes.
To the credit of those in power behind the lines, it should be said that they tried to extricate their veteran troops, stranded in the very heart of the Bolshevik Revolution, and they sent a special conciliatory delegation for this purpose. But as for the gunners themselves – to the surprise of all the mustachioed members of the delegation, dignified, serious of expression, with white collars and perpetually mournful eyes – they refused to return.
It turned out that in the brief time they had spent in Russia they had fallen in love with Russian open-heartedness, and more than they fell in love with the blonde maidens, chanting delightful, almost angelic songs – they fell in love with the Revolution itself and stayed in Russia permanently.
