The incomprehensible and unexpected kindness of the general exasperated Bologa. He wanted to say that service with the ammunition column was more fatiguing than with the battery, when all at once the thought of the Rumanian priest in the corridor flashed into his mind, and he felt a sudden overpowering longing to speak to him. Neither the general nor the front interested him any longer. He stood up, mumbled awkward words of thanks, pressed a fat, flabby hand, bowed and went out with a luminous look on his face.
He rapidly made his way to the soldiers’ coach and pushed past the peasants in the corridor. The priest was still at the same place. He saw him from afar, and the perspiration broke out on his forehead. Now he recognized him and felt overcome with joy.
“Don’t you know me, father?” he called out eagerly, holding out both hands.
The priest paled as if he had been caught committing a crime. When Bologa mentioned his name a spark of eagerness showed in his eyes, but it died out at once, and he looked round fearfully to see if no one were spying on him. The priest was Constantin Boteanu, who had been one of Apostol’s best chums at college.
“And where is your parish, Constantin?” asked Bologa eagerly, happily.
“Quite near Faget, where the High Command is—I don’t know what its name is in the Army,” answered the priest, embarrassed and nervous because he was talking Rumanian with an officer.
“Is it a Rumanian village?” insisted Apostol.
“Half and half; we call it Lunca, but in Hungarian it is called …”
“Lunca?” interrupted Bologa, as if he wished to stop him from uttering the Hungarian word. “Down our way there is also a village called Lunca. Do you remember?”
“Of course, I remember very well,” answered the priest. “But over here all the Rumanians talk Hungarian, that’s the custom when we are among Hungarians. And it is quite right that it should be so.”
“Why right, father?” exclaimed Apostol seriously. “Can’t you see that looking at it like that means that, sooner or later, you’ll be left without a parish?”
“Well, yes, that’s true enough,” murmured Boteanu, confused and smiling humbly. “What can I do, though? We have no power and can’t even interfere. Life lays such heavy burdens on us that I marvel how we can live at all”.
“When man has an ideal he faces all hardships,” said Bologa dejectedly and understandingly.
“Our ideal is God,” answered the priest with a diffidence which concealed bitter fear. “When one has suffered as we have one no longer trusts or hopes in anything but God.”
Then he told Apostol that, when the Rumanians had come into the war, the authorities had seized him and three of the peasant headmen and transported them to Hungary, near Dobritzin. His wife and his two babes had been left to the care of the Lord. For three months he had had no news of them, and he had felt sure that they must be dead. Only after the wheel of fortune had taken a turn in the opposite direction did he hear that they were well and were longing for his return. But many weeks had gone by and there had been no hint of his being allowed to go home. He had begged everybody in turn, he had humbled himself, he had kotowed, all in vain. Once they’d tell him his village was in the forbidden zone, then they’d say all Rumanians were suspects, then again that and the other, then something else. At last he begged to be allowed to bring over his family to Dobritzin until God should grant peace again. And then, unexpectedly, they set him free and allowed him to go home, bidding him look to his behaviour.
Apostol Bologa listened with a smile on his lips, but displeasure and disappointment gnawed at his soul. The priest’s nervousness and the diffidence which marked all his words and looks hurt him, although he tried to avoid seeing them. In his turn he told Constantin how he had fared in the war, and then, shaking hands with him, said:
“Well, Constantin, I’ll be sure to come over to your house soon, so that we can have a good old talk!”
The priest answered, panic-stricken:
“Please … My wife writes to say that there are always soldiers in and out of our house, for that’s how things are to-day”.
Bologa tried to smile, but his mouth set in a painful grin.
IV
The office of the ammunition column was in Lunca, in a little side-street, in the house of the gravedigger, Paul Vidor. The house faced the street and had in the middle a narrow lobby with a door which was always open. On the right there was a biggish room which had been turned into the office, and on the left two smaller rooms. The gravedigger had retired into the one at the back, and in the front one lodged the commander of the column.
Apostol Bologa took over, from the lieutenant whose place he was taking, the office with the registers and documents. He had not been able to sleep in the train, and as soon as he reached Lunca he made straight for the office. He felt dead-tired. He listened uninterestedly to all his predecessor’s explanations until the latter unrolled a sketch plan of the front, showing the positions of all the units belonging to the division. Then he sat down at the table, feeling revived, as if he had drunk some magic draught, and devouring with his eyes the map with the red and blue marks, tried to follow the capricious lines with trembling fingers. But his head was so confused that he could not understand, so he stood up and said uncertainly:
“I don’t understand anything … my brain is seething. I’ll find out all about it later on.”
“Of course you will”, answered the other man quickly. “Besides, this sketch is out of date and you’ll have to complete it. Look, for example, there at the edge, on the south, that sector is now occupied by dismounted hussars. There is a rumour that the Rumanians are getting ready to attack. You’ll soon know all about it and become familiar with the situation. Naturally the sketch is merely to guide you and to give you an idea of the position of things, for really the only thing that is of interest to you here is our artillery.”
To get rid of him more quickly, Bologa held out his hand with a not very successful smile.
“You are very pale and thin, comrade,” said the lieutenant, taking his leave. “I don’t believe you have quite recovered—anyway, by the look of you. You’ll have to take great care of yourself.”
Apostol lowered his eyes, hardly able to master a strange feeling of revolt and humility. He remained on his feet, leaning against the edge of the table. At the other long table a sergeant and a corporal were busy writing. Out of the corners of their eyes they looked at their new chief while zealously scratching away with their pens. He would have liked to say a word or two to them, but he found himself utterly unable to do so, and he was afraid to find pity there also. Just then, to his relief, Petre appeared on the threshold, saying:
“Sir, I have a meal ready for you; you must be very hungry. Please step over into the other room.”
Hearing the Rumanian language, both non-coms, looked up quickly and stared at the orderly in astonishment. Bologa noticed their movement and answered with a childish pride, as if he were trying to defy their astonishment:
“All right, Petre.… I am hungry, for in the train I tightened my belt more than I ate!”
From the lobby, through the half-open door, he heard the voice of one of the non-coms.:
“I do believe the lieutenant is a Wallach, too!”
These words, almost contemptuous in tone, which at another time would have annoyed him, now soothed him as if they had been praise, and he crossed over into the other room feeling much calmer.
His room was clean, the bed comfortable. There were pots of geranium in the window, and on the walls hung flower-patterned wooden bowls and dishes. The table in the middle of the room was laid, and in the brick stove a fine fire glowed. Apostol looked round, pleased, but stopped short when his gaze fell on the figure of a young girl of eighteen or so squatting close to the stove. She had a scarlet kerchief tied round her head, big black, laughing eyes, and full, fresh lips. Now he came to think of it, he remembered that he had seen her just now, when he had entered the enclosure, and th
ough he had not consciously taken any notice of her, it had struck him that her eyes had appraised him with unusual boldness.
“Who is it?” asked Apostol of the orderly, jerking his head in her direction.
“She is the landlord’s daughter, sir.”
Bologa’s face brightened; he held out his hand and said in Hungarian:
“Is it you who have made this room look so nice?”
“With your soldier’s help,” answered the girl with a saucy smile, looking right into his eyes.
Apostol felt the rough, very warm hand in his own and asked again, for fun:
“And what’s your name?”
“Ilona.”
“Ilona.… H’m.… Yes.… And aren’t you afraid with so many soldiers about?”
“Why should I be afraid?” answered the girl simply, adding quickly, with pride: “I am only afraid of God!”
While he was settling down to his meal Ilona, leaning against the stove, didn’t take her eyes off him; she seemed under a spell. As a matter of fact, Apostol, too, while he was eating, looked at her out of the corner of his eye, at first with an impatient curiosity and then with a puzzled feeling of tenderness. He had always been bashful with women, diffident and ill at ease. He had always felt ashamed before them because he didn’t know what to say to them. With Marta at first, and even after they had become engaged, he had often felt embarrassed and had blushed like a girl. The uniform and the war had woken him up and done away with his bashfulness. Three days after he had put on military clothes he had conquered a sentimental little cashier-girl, had sworn to be faithful to her for ever, and then had forgotten her in the arms of another. Wherever Fate led him ephemeral love affairs were thrust on him. And he accepted them as they came, without choosing, almost hurriedly, as if he wished to make up for lost time. Nevertheless, in a little separate chamber of his heart he kept his love for Marta untouched and pure, and took care that nothing should come near to defile it. When the image in his heart reproached him, he quietened the reproaches with solemn promises for the future. But the eyes of the little Hungarian peasant-girl seemed to have found their way right into that secret chamber without his being able to oppose it, because, for the first time since the war had started, he was again feeling bashful and confused. When he realized this he felt furious and made up his mind not to look at her again.
“I expect the little girl has done her best to keep all those who had this room before me from being bored with life,” thought he, looking up again and staring at Ilona defiantly.
Her gay glance shamed him. He was sorry he had insulted her, even though it had been in thought.
Petre went out to see to his work, and he signed to the girl to go also, so that the lieutenant might have a little rest. Ilona did not budge; she seemed not to have understood the orderly’s signs. Apostol, with his nose in his plate, was trying to break the silence and felt wild because he could think of nothing to say. Finally, he asked her abruptly, without looking at her:
“You don’t know Rumanian, little girl?”
“I know a little, but round about here nearly everybody speaks Hungarian, for that’s the custom here,” answered Ilona quickly, almost uneasily. Then, because Apostol remained silent, she went on more quietly: “As a matter of fact, our church here is Rumanian, and the popa always takes the service in Rumanian; he only preaches in Hungarian so that we should understand better.”
Apostol was just chiding himself for asking such a silly question, and her answer increased his embarrassment. Not her words but her voice, harsh and yet sweet and caressing as a silken ribbon, with little affectations like those of a spoilt child. All he longed for now was to hear that voice again, and he racked his brain trying to find some question which would make her speak. All his efforts were in vain. About three minutes passed in complete silence, during which he gazed desperately into her eyes, which seemed to fill the room with a soft, enticing light. Then suddenly he had a bright idea: he’d ask her how old she was—of course jokingly, so that she should not start imagining things. He was afraid that his voice would tremble and that Ilona would wrongly interpret his question. Before he could make up his mind to open his lips there was a loud knocking at the door. The girl straightened herself and whispered:
“It’s father.”
Without waiting any further for an invitation to enter, a peasant walked into the room. Bologa, furious, started up ready to knock him down. But Paul Vidor approached, jovially, with outstretched hand, and welcomed him into his house. His face was bony, with many wrinkles under the brown eyes, which were bright with intelligence and shrewdness. He had a thick, greying moustache with the ends pointed, as have all Hungarian peasants. The landlord’s appearance soon put an end to the lieutenant’s rage. He answered him quietly, and even invited him to be seated. The gravedigger looked round to see if everything was in order and noticed Ilona, who was now poking the fire with great energy.
“Ilona, come now, make yourself scarce!” he ordered, frowning. “What are you doing here? Have you nothing better to do than to stay here bothering this gentleman?”
“You don’t think it’s for love of him that I’m here?” mumbled the girl sulkily, without looking round.
“Come, come, not so much chatter!” said the gravedigger until the door had closed, and then added gently to Bologa: “We’ve got to be severe with her, otherwise we’d never manage to live in peace in the midst of so many soldiers. She is young and silly, sir, and doesn’t understand that you have work to do and that you haven’t come over here to waste your time in conversations.”
Paul Vidor was extraordinarily talkative, and more than anything he loved to chat with gentlemen, believing himself to be more intelligent and more capable than the other villagers. He drew up a chair to the table, sat down deliberately, and immediately plunged into talk, although Apostol’s brow had darkened. He was racked with the desire to hear the girl’s voice again. His curt answers did not discourage the gravedigger at all; on the contrary, they seemed to encourage him. From one thing to another, he came to telling Bologa that he was a man of means, though he was a gravedigger. He had plenty of land, and good at that, if only he were able to work it better in these difficult times. He had only turned gravedigger since his wife’s death—may her sins be forgiven—that was to say, about eleven years ago, when she had left him alone, heartbroken, with two small children on his hands. His original trade had been joinery, and he had learnt it as a child in the town, for his father had wished to put into his hands a means of livelihood, which was better than any amount of property. Besides, didn’t the joiner go hand-in-hand with the gravedigger—one made the coffin and the other dug the grave—so that he had not been ashamed to dig the grave for the dead while he learnt to make their coffins. For in a village it is better to be a gravedigger than a joiner. A man can manage somehow to rig up a table and chairs for himself, but to dig his grave he requires someone else. He didn’t mind hard work—he hated idling. When you’re left a widower with a boy of eleven and a girl of seven on your hands you have to work hard if you don’t want to be eaten up by poverty. Well, things went on somehow, really better than worse, until the war calamity befell the poor world. His boy had just reached the serving age and he had joined up, for he could not do otherwise, and he was dead within a year. They didn’t even know where he had died— somewhere in Russia. God, how they had wept, he and the girl! But did tears and lamentations ever bring the dead back to life? May God rest his bones in peace and forgive his sins! Round about here it had been quiet until the Rumanians had joined the fray. Since then what trouble and bitterness! Many, from sheer terror, had run away inland. He had remained at home, come what might, for he could not bring himself to leave his property to take care of itself. Well, as a matter of fact, the Rumanians had not done much damage, it was only fair to say so. Just food they had taken, like all soldiers, especially when they had retired into their country. Much more pitiless had our own people been, if the truth be told, f
or no sooner had they arrived than they, without much ado, hanged three villagers, saying that they had signalled to the enemy. He’d almost got into trouble himself because the Rumanians had made him burgomaster instead of the one who had run away. As if it were wrong to do one’s duty! Well, over in Faget, the next village, who was burgomaster? Why, his own brother-in-law! Well, then, why should the fact that he had been burgomaster for a few weeks have been held up against him? Well, he’d got over everything, so now if only God would send peace quickly …
Bologa let him ramble on. When the gravedigger had finished the tale of his life, he waited to be told some news in his turn, and because the lieutenant did not bother to speak, he asked him pointedly, lowering his voice mysteriously:
“What about the peace, sir? Is there no news at all in the town? Last night I was over in Faget, at my brother-in-law’s, and I heard some rumour that the Russian had had enough and wanted to make peace. The great general is actually lodging at my brother-in-law’s house, and next door are officers of the division. Perhaps you don’t know it, as you are newly arrived. Yes, that’s what the officers say over there about the Russians! Whether it’s true or not the Lord alone knows, but a good thing it would be if it were true!”
“I’ve come straight from the hospital and don’t know what’s happening in the world,” explained Bologa, “but that things are far from right, friend, that much I can tell you!”
“Yes, that’s true, very true,” agreed the peasant, nodding his head gravely. “There is much trouble and pain; yes, there is! If only the Lord would make the authorities sufficiently merciful and intelligent to sheathe their swords and save us from being completely destroyed! It’s all very well for them; they are safe over there and give orders, while over here men suffer, are being tortured, and die.”
Forest of the Hanged Page 12
