“I know who robbed you!” the innkeeper shouted. “I myself have some accounts to settle with him! Which way did he go?”
“I cannot tell you which way he went!” Hershele whispered bitterly. “But give me your horse, and I shall catch him in an instant! Just wait for me here. Undress, stand by the tree, hug it, and don’t move an inch until I return! This tree is a holy tree! Many things in our world depend on it!”
Hershele had been quick to size this man up. One glance had been enough to tell him that husband and wife were not all that far apart. And, sure enough, the innkeeper took off his clothes, went over to the tree, and stood by it. Hershele jumped into the cart and rode off. He dug up his things, put them in the cart, and rode to the edge of the forest.
Hershele left the horse, slung the bundle over his shoulder, and continued along the road that led to Rabbi Boruchl’s house.
The sun had already risen. The birds sang, closing their eyes. The innkeeper’s mare, her head hanging low, pulled the empty cart back to where she had left her master.
The innkeeper, naked beneath the rays of the rising sun, stood waiting for her huddled against the tree. He felt cold. He was shifting from one foot to the other.
ON THE FIELD OF HONOR
The following stories are the beginning of my notes on the War. Their plots were taken from books written by French soldiers and officers who took part in the battles. In some passages I have altered the plot and the narrative form, in others I tried to stay as close as possible to the original.
On the Field of Honor
The German batteries were shelling the villages with heavy artillery. The peasants were running for Paris. They dragged with them cripples, freaks, women in labor, dogs, sheep, goods and chattels. The sky, sparkling with heat and azure, slowly turned crimson, heavy, and clouded with smoke.
The sector near N was occupied by the Thirty-seventh Infantry Regiment. Losses were great. The regiment was preparing to counterattack. Captain Ratin was making his rounds of the trenches. The sun was at its zenith. The neighboring sector sent word that all the officers of the Fourth Company had fallen. The Fourth Company was continuing its resistance.
Ratin saw the shape of a man about three hundred meters from the trenches. It was private Bidou, Simpleton Bidou. He was cowering in a wet pit, which had been made by an exploding shell. The soldier was doing what obscene old men in villages and depraved boys in public lavatories do. I dont think I need say more.
“Bidou! Button yourself up!” the captain yelled in disgust. “Why are you here?”
“I ... I cant tell you . . . Im frightened, Captain!”
“You’ve found yourself a wife here, you swine! You have the gall to tell me to my face that you’re a coward? You have abandoned your comrades just when the regiment is about to attack? Bien, mon cochon!”
“I swear to you, Captain, I’ve tried everything! ‘Bidou!’ I said to myself. ‘Be reasonable!’ I drank a whole bottle of pure spirits for courage! Je nepeux pas, capitaine. I’m frightened, Captain!”
The simpleton lay his head on his knees, clutched it with both hands, and began to cry. Then he looked up at the captain, and through the slits of his porcine eyes flickered timid, tender hope.
Ratin was a quick-tempered man. He had lost two brothers in the war and had a wound in his neck that hadn’t healed. A wave of blasphemous abuse poured over the soldier, a dry hot torrent of the repulsive, frenzied, and nonsensical words that send blood pounding to the temples, and drive one man to kill another.
Instead of answering, Bidou quietly shook his round, red-haired, tousled head, the heavy head of the village idiot.
No power on earth could have made him stand up. The captain came right to the edge of the pit and whispered very quietly.
“Get up, Bidou, or I will piss on you from head to toe.”
He did as he said. Captain Ratin was not a man to joke with. A reeking stream splashed forcefully over the soldier’s face. Bidou was an idiot, a village idiot, but he could not bear this insult. He gave a long, inhuman howl. The miserable, solitary, forlorn howl spread over the harrowed fields. He jumped up, wrung his hands, and bolted over the field toward the German trenches. An enemy bullet struck him in the chest. Ratin finished him off with two shots from his revolver. The soldier’s body didn’t even twitch. It was left lying in no-man’s-land, between enemy lines.
Thus died Celestin Bidou, a Norman peasant from Ori, twenty-one years of age, on the bloodstained fields of France.
The story I have told here is true. Captain Gaston Vidal wrote of it in his book Figures et anecdotes de la Grand Guerre. He had witnessed the event. He also fought for France, Captain Vidal did.
***
The Deserter
Captain Gemier was an outstanding man, and a philosopher too. On the battlefield he never hesitated, in private life he was capable of overlooking minor offenses. It is no small thing for a man to be able to overlook minor offenses. He loved France with a soul-devouring fervor, and his hatred for the barbarians who were defiling her ancient soil was relentless, unquenchable, and lifelong.
What more can one say about Gemier? He loved his wife, brought up his children to be good citizens, was a Frenchman, a patriot, a Parisian, and a lover of books and beautiful things.
Then one fine rosy spring morning, Captain Gemier was informed that an unarmed soldier had been found between French and enemy lines. The soldier s intention to defect was obvious, his guilt clear, and he was brought back under guard.
“Is that you, Beauge?”
“Yes, Captain!” the soldier replied, saluting.
“I see you took advantage of the dawn to catch a breath of fresh air!”
Silence.
“C'est bien! You may leave the two of us alone!”
The other soldiers left. Gemier locked the door. The soldier was twenty years old.
“You know what awaits you! Voyons, explain yourself!”
Beauge told him everything. He said that he was sick of war.
Tm sick of war, mon capitaine. No sleep for six nights because of the shelling!”
He had a horror of war. He had not wanted to go to the other side as a traitor, but to give himself up.
In a word, our little Beauge was unexpectedly eloquent. He told the captain that he was only twenty—mon dieu, cest nature!' one makes mistakes at twenty. He had a mother, a fiancee, des bons amis. His whole life lay before him, before twenty-year-old Beauge, and he would have ample time to make up for his transgression against France.
“Captain, what would my mother say if she found out that I was shot like a wretched criminal?”
The soldier fell to his knees.
“Dont try that with me, Beauge!” the captain told him. “The other soldiers saw you. We get five soldiers like you, and the whole company is poisoned. C’est la defaite. Cela jamais* *“That would mean defeat. Never.”] You are going to die, Beauge, but I shall save your honor. The local authorities will not be informed of your disgrace. Your mother will be told that you fell on the field of honor. Lets go!”
The soldier followed his superior officer. When they got to the forest, the captain stopped, took out his revolver, and held it out to Beauge.
“This is how you can avoid a court-martial. You will shoot yourself! I will come back in five minutes. By then everything must be over!”
Gemier walked away. Not a sound interrupted the silence of the forest. The captain returned. Beauge was waiting for him, hunched over.
“I cant, Captain!” he whispered. “I dont have the strength.”
And he recommenced the same long story—his mother, his fiancee, his friends, the life that lay before him.
“I am giving you another five minutes, Beauge! Dont waste my time!”
When the captain returned, he found the soldier lying on the ground, sobbing, his fingers twitching weakly on the revolver.
Gemier helped the soldier to his feet and, looking him in the eye, said in a quiet, friendly vo
ice, “Beauge, my friend. Could it be that you dont know how to do it?”
He slowly took the revolver from the young boys wet hands, walked away three paces, and shot him in the head.
• • •
This incident is also described in Gaston Vidals book. And the soldier was in actual fact called Beauge. I am not fully sure if this captains name really was Gemier. Vidals story is dedicated “with deep reverence” to a certain Firmin Gemier—and I believe this dedication might well indicate that the captains name was indeed Gemier. Furthermore, Vidal maintains that the captain was “a patriot, a soldier, a good father and a man who was capable of overlooking minor offences.” And that is quite a commendable trait in a man—being able to overlook minor offenses.
1
“Here and there.”
2
Izya Kremer, 1885-1956, Odessan Jewish folksinger.
^ Sergei Isayevich Utochkin, 1874-1916, aviation pioneer, was the first to fly from Moscow to St. Petersburg, in 1911.
3
Chernosotyensi (Black Hundred), a right-wing, anti-Semitic group responsible for pogroms.
4
Babel is implying that a cold, northern Petersburg frame of mind overpowered Gogols earlier brighter southern “Poltavan” style, and that the somber and tragic Akaki Akakiyevich, the protagonist of “The Overcoat,” superseded Gritsko, the lively and witty protagonist of “Evenings on a farm near Dikanka.” Father Matvei Konstantinovsky was a fanatical ascetic priest who influenced Gogol’s later writing. Taras is the protagonist of Gogol’s story “Taras Bulba.”
5
Constantinople’s Cathedral of Hagia Sophia, the seat of Russian and Greek Orthodox Christianity.
6
Maxim Moseyevich Vinaver, 1863-1923, Jewish politician, activist, and writer who emigrated to Paris, where he became the editor of the Russian-French Jewish journal Evreiskaya Tribuna. Nikolai Osipovich Linovsky, a Jewish writer who wrote under the pseudonym Pruzhansky.
^ An elegant and expensive Odessan cafe that attracted a wealthy international clientele.
Papa Marescot’s Family
We occupy a village that we have taken from the enemy. It is a tiny Picardy village, lovely and modest. Our company has been bivouacked in the cemetery. Surrounding us are smashed crucifixes and fragments of statues and tombstones wrecked by the sledgehammer of an unknown defiler. Rotting corpses have spilled out of coffins shattered by shells. A picture worthy of you, Michelangelo!
A soldier has no time for mysticism. A field of skulls has been dug up into trenches. War is war. Were still alive. If it is our lot to increase the population of this chilly little hole, we should at least make these decaying corpses dance a jig to the tune of our machine guns.
A shell had blown off the cover of one of the vaults. This so I could have a shelter, no doubt about it. I made myself comfortable in that hole, que voulez vous, on loge ou on peut.1
So—its a wonderful, bright spring morning. I am lying on corpses, looking at the fresh grass, thinking of Hamlet. He wasn’t that bad a philosopher, the poor prince. Skulls spoke to him in human words. Nowadays, that kind of skill would really come in handy for a lieutenant of the French army.
“Lieutenant, theres some civilian here who wants to see you!” a corporal calls out to me.
What the hell does a civilian want in these nether regions?
A character enters. A shabby, shriveled little old man. He is wearing his Sunday best. His frock coat is bespattered with mud. A half-empty sack dangles from his cowering shoulders. There must be a frozen potato in it—every time he moves, something rattles in the sack.
“Eh bien, what do you want?”
“My name, you see, is Monsieur Marescot,” the civilian whispers, and bows. “That is why I’ve come . . .”
“So?”
“I would like to bury Madame Marescot and the rest of my family, Monsieur Lieutenant.”
“What?”
“My name, you see, is Papa Marescot.” The old man lifts his hat from his gray forehead. “Perhaps you have heard of me, Monsieur Lieutenant!”
Papa Marescot? I have heard this name before. Of course I have heard it. This is the story: Three days ago, at the beginning of our occupation, all nonenemy civilians had been issued the order to evacuate. Some left, others stayed. Those who stayed hid in cellars. But their courage was no match for the bombardment—the stone defense proved hopeless. Many were killed. A whole family had been crushed beneath the debris of a cellar. It was the Marescot family. Their name had stuck in my mind, a true French name. They had been a family of four, the father, mother, and two daughters. Only the father survived.
“You poor man! So you are Marescot? This is so sad. Why did you have to go into that damned cellar, why?”
The corporal interrupted me.
“It looks like they re starting up again, Lieutenant!”
That was to be expected. The Germans had noticed the movement in our trenches. The volley came from the right flank, then it moved farther left. I grabbed Papa Marescot by the collar and pulled him down. My boys ducked their heads and sat quietly under cover, no one as much as sticking his nose out.
Papa Marescot sat pale and shivering in his Sunday best. A five-inch kitten was meowing nearby.
“What can I do for you, Papa? This is no time to beat about the bush! As you can see, were at each others throats here!”
“Mon lieutenant, IVe told you everything. I would like to bury my family.”
“Fine, Fll send the men to collect the bodies.”
“I have the bodies with me, Monsieur Lieutenant!”
“What?”
He pointed to the sack. In it were the meager remains of Papa Marescot s family.
I shuddered with horror.
“Very well, Papa, I will have my men bury them.”
He looked at me as if I had just uttered the greatest idiocy.
“When this hellish din has died down,” I continued, “we shall dig an excellent grave for them. Rest assured, pere Marescot, we will take care of everything.”
“But I have a family vault.”
“Splendid, where is it?”
“But... but.. .”
“ ‘But what?
“But were sitting in it as we speak, mon lieutenant.”
The Quaker
“Thou shalt not kill” one of the Commandments dictates. This is why Stone, a Quaker, enlisted in the Drivers Corps. He could serve his country without committing the mortal sin of murder. His wealth and education could have secured him a higher post, but, a slave to his conscience, he humbly accepted an insignificant position and the company of people he found coarse.
Who was Stone? He was a bald dome on top of a long stick. The Lord had given him this body with only one objective: to raise Stones thoughts above the sorrows and cares of this world. His every move was nothing more than a victory of spirit over matter. Regardless of how bad things were, when he was sitting at the wheel of his car he bore himself with the wooden firmness of a preacher in his pulpit. No one ever saw him laugh.
One morning Stone was off duty and decided to go for a walk to pay homage to the Lord in the midst of His creation. An enormous Bible under his arm, Stone strode with his long legs over meadows revived by spring. The blue sky, the twittering of the sparrows in the grass, filled him with joy.
Stone sat down, opened his Bible—but at that very moment he saw an untethered horse, its scrawny ribs jutting out, appear by the bend in the path. Stone immediately heard the powerful voice of duty calling him from within. Back home, he was a member of the Society for the Protection of Animals. He went up to the beast, patted its soft lips, and, forgetting his walk, set off for the stables, clutching his Bible. On the way, he stopped to let the horse drink at a well.
The stableboy was a young man named Bekker. His ways had always triggered righteous indignation in Stone: at every posting, Bekker left inconsolable fiancees.
“I could report you to the major!” the Quak
er told him. “But I hope that this time a simple warning will be enough! You are going to look after this poor sick horse, which deserves a much better fate than you do!”
And he marched off with a measured, solemn gait, ignoring the guffaws behind him. The young mans square, protruding chin convincingly testified of his invincible stubbornness.
A few days passed. The horse was still wandering about neglected. This time, Stone told Bekker severely, “Son of Satan!” this is more or less how he started his speech. “The Lord Almighty may well allow you to destroy your soul, but your grievous sins should not be allowed to fall upon an innocent mare! Look at her, you wretch! She is stomping about, greatly unsettled. I am certain you are treating her roughly, as is to be expected from a criminal like you! I shall say this one last time, you Devils progeny: head to your own damnation as fast as you see fit, but look after this horse, or you will have me to answer to!”
From that day on, Stone felt that Providence had invested him with a special mission: to care for the fate of the abused quadruped. He felt that people, sinful as they were, were unworthy of respect. But for animals he felt an indescribable compassion. His exhausting duties did not hinder him from keeping his inviolable promise to God.
At night the Quaker would often get out of his car (he slept in it, huddled on the seats) in order to make sure that the horse was at a suitable distance from Bekker s nail-studded boot. In good weather, Stone would even mount the beloved animal. The poor nag, trotting along with an air of importance, would carry Stones long, scrawny body over the green fields, while Stone, his face yellowish and sallow and his lips pressed tight, would picture the immortal, toy-soldierlike figure of the Knight of the Mournful Countenance trotting on his mare Rosinante, over flowers and pastures green.
Stones zeal bore fruit. The stableboy felt Stones relentless eyes upon him, and used every trick in the book not to be caught in the act, but when he was alone with the mare, he vented on her all the fury of his base soul. He felt an inexplicable dread of the taciturn Quaker, and he hated him because of this, and despised himself. The only way he could raise himself in his own esteem was to taunt the horse which the Quaker had taken under his wing. Such is the despicable pride of man. Locking himself in the stables with the horse, the stableboy pricked her hairy, sagging lips with red-hot needles, lashed her across the spine with a wire whip, and threw salt in her eyes. When he finally let the tortured animal totter fearfully to its stall, blinded by stinging salt and swaying like a drunkard, the stableboy threw himself in the hay and laughed his heart out, enjoying his revenge to the fullest.
The Complete Works of Isaac Babel Reprint Edition by Isaac Babel, Nathalie Babel, Peter Constantine Page 9
