The Complete Works of Isaac Babel Reprint Edition by Isaac Babel, Nathalie Babel, Peter Constantine
Page 43
The smoke envelops the entire village, bright flames, plump black billows of smoke, a mass of wood, hot in the face, everything carried out of the priest’s house and the church, thrown into the front garden. Apanasenko in a red Cossack jacket, a black coat, clean-shaven face, a terrifying apparition, an ataman.
Our Cossacks, a sad sight, dragging loot out over the back porch, their eyes burning, all of them looking uneasy, ashamed, this so-called habit of theirs is ineradicable. All the church banners, ancient saints’ books,* icons are being carried out, strange figures painted whitish pink, whitish blue, monstrous, flat-faced, Chinese or Buddhist, heaps of paper flowers, will the church catch fire, peasant women are wringing their hands in silence, the townspeople, frightened and silent, are running barefoot, everyone sits in front of their hut with a bucket. They are apathetic, cowed, remarkably numb, but they’d drop everything to put out their own fires. They’ve come to terms with the plundering— the soldiers are circling around the priest’s trunks like rapacious, overwrought beasts, they say there’s gold in there, one can take it away from a priest, a portrait of Count Andrzej Szceptycki, the Metropolitan of Galicia. A manly magnate with a black ring on his large, aristocratic hand. The lower lip of the old priest, who has served in Lashkov for thirty-five years, is constantly trembling. He tells me about Szceptycki, that he is not “educated” in the Polish spirit, comes from Ruthenian
* Chefi Menie, anthologies of Old Church Slavonic writings about the lives of saints, organized by month and date.
grandees, “The Counts of Szceptycki,” then they went over to the Poles, his brother is commander in chief of the Polish forces, Andrzej returned to the Ruthenians. His ancient culture, quiet and solid. A good, educated priest who has laid in a supply of flour, chickens, wants to talk about the universities, Ruthenians, the poor man, Apanasenko with his red Cossack jacket is staying with him.
Night—an unusual sight, the high road is brilliantly lit, my room is bright, Im working, the lamp is burning, calm, the Kuban Cossacks are singing with feeling, their thin figures by the campfires, the songs are totally Ukrainian, the horses lie down to sleep. I go to the division commander. Vinokurov tells me about him—a partisan, an ataman, a rebel, Cossack freedom, wild uprising, his ideal is Dumenko,8 an open wound, one has to submit oneself to the organization, a deadly hatred for the aristocracy, clerics, and, most of all, for the intelligentsia, which he cannot stomach in the army. Apanasenko will graduate from a school—how is it different from the times of Bogdan Khmelnitsky?
Late at night. Four o’clock.
August 11, 1920. Lashkov
A day of work, sitting at the headquarters, I write to the point of exhaustion, a day of rest. Toward evening, rain. Kuban Cossacks are staying the night in my room, strange: peaceful and warlike, domestic, and peasants of obvious Ukrainian origin, not all that young.
About the Kuban Cossacks. Camaraderie, they always stick together, horses snort beneath the windows night and day, the marvelous smell of horse manure, of sun, of sleeping Cossacks, twice a day they boil large pails of soup and meat. At night Kuban Cossacks come to visit. Ceaseless rain, they dry themselves and eat their supper in my room. A religious Kuban Cossack in a soft hat, pale face, blond mustache. They are decent, friendly, wild, but somehow more sympathetic, domestic, less foulmouthed, more calm than the Cossacks from Stavropol and the Don.
The nurse came, how clear it all is, must describe that, she is worn out, wants to leave, everyone has had her—the commandant, at least thats what they say, Yakovlev,* and, O horror, Gusev. She’s pitiful, wants to leave, sad, talks gibberish, wants to talk to me about something and looks at me with trusting eyes, she says I am her friend, the others, the others are scum. How quickly they have managed to destroy a person, debase her, make her ugly. She is naive, foolish, receptive even to revolutionary phrases, and the silly fool talks a lot about the Revolution, she worked in the Cheka’s Culture and Education Division, how many male influences.
Interview with Apanasenko. This is very interesting. Must remember this. His blunt, terrible face, his hard body, like Utochkin’s.^
His orderlies (Lyovka), magnificent golden horses, his hangers-on, carriages, Volodya, his adopted son—a small Cossack with an old man’s face, curses like a grown man.
Apanasenko, hungry for fame, here we have it: a new class of man. Whatever the operational situation might be, he will always go off and come back again, an organizer of units, totally hostile to officers, four George Crosses, a career soldier, a noncommissioned officer, an ensign under Kerensky, chairman of the Regimental Committee, stripped officers of their stripes, long months on the Astrakhan steppes, indisputable authority, a professional soldier.
About the atamans, there had been many there, they got themselves machine guns, fought against Shkuro and Mamontov,** merged into the Red Army, a heroic epic. This is not a Marxist Revolution, it is a Cossack uprising that wants to win all and lose nothing. Apanasenko’s hatred for the rich, an unquenchable hatred of the intelligentsia.
Night with the Kuban Cossacks, rain, it’s stuffy, I have some sort of strange itch.
August 12, 1920. Lashkov
The fourth day in Lashkov. A completely downtrodden Galician village. They used to live better than the Russians, good houses, strong
sense of decency, respect for priests, the people honest but blood-drained, my landlords deformed child, how and why was he born, not a drop of blood left in the mother, they are continually hiding something somewhere, pigs are grunting somewhere, they have probably hidden cloth somewhere.
A day off, a good thing—my correspondence, mustn’t neglect that.
Must write for the newspaper, and the life story of Apanasenko.
The division is resting, a kind of stillness in ones heart, and people are better, songs, campfires, fire in the night, jokes, happy, apathetic horses, someone reads the newspaper, they stroll around, shoe their horses. What all this looks like, Sokolov is going on leave, I give him a letter home.
I keep writing about pipes, about long-forgotten things, so much for the Revolution, that’s what I should be concentrating on.
Don’t forget the priest in Lashkov, badly shaven, kind, educated, possibly mercenary: a chicken, a duck, his house, lived well, droll etchings.
Friction between the military commissar and the division commander. He got up and left with Kniga* while Yakovlev, the divisional political commissar, was giving a report, Apanasenko went to the military commissar.
Vinokurov: a typical military commissar, always wants things done his way, wants to put the Sixth Division on track, struggle with the partisan attitude, dull-witted, bores me to death with his speeches, at times he’s rude, uses the informal “you” with everyone.
August 13, 1920. Nivitsa
At night the order comes: head for Busk, thirty-five versts east of Lvov.
We set out in the morning. All three brigades are concentrated in one place. I’m on Misha’s horse, it was taught to run and won’t go at a walking pace, it goes at a trot. The whole day on horseback with the division commander. The farm at Porady. In the forest, four enemy airplanes, a volley of fire. Three brigade commanders: Kolesnikov,
Korotchayev, Kniga. Vasily Ivanovich [Kniga] s sly move, headed for Toporov (Chanyz) in a bypass maneuver, didn’t run into the enemy anywhere. We are at the Porady farm, destroyed huts, I pull an old woman out of a hatch door, dovecotes. Together with the lookout on the battery. Our attack by the woods.
A disaster—swamps, canals, the cavalry can’t be deployed anywhere, attacks in infantry formation, inertia, is our morale flagging? Persistent and yet light fighting near Toporov (in comparison to the Imperialist carnage), they’re attacking on three sides, cannot overpower us, a hurricane of fire from our artillery, from two batteries.
Night. All the attacks failed. Overnight the headquarters move to Nivitsa. Thick fog, penetrating cold, horse, roads through forests, campfires and candles, nurses on tachankas, a harsh journey afte
r a day of anxiety and ultimate failure.
All day long through fields and forests. Most interesting of all: the division commander, his grin, foul language, curt exclamations, snorting, shrugs his shoulders, is agitated, responsibility for everything, passion—if only he had been there everything would have been fine.
What can I remember? The night ride, the screams of the women in Porady when we began (I broke off writing here, two bombs thrown from an airplane exploded a hundred paces from us, we’re at a clearing in the forest west of St[ary] Maidan) taking away their linen, our attack, something we can’t quite make out, not frightening at a distance, some lines of men, horsemen riding over a meadow, at a distance this all looks like it is done haphazardly, it does not seem in the least bit frightening.
When we advanced close to the little town, things began to heat up, the moment of the attack, the moment when a town is taken, the feverish, frightening, mounting rattle of the machine guns driving one to hopelessness and despair, the ceaseless explosions and, high up over all of this, silence, and nothing can be seen.
The work of Apanasenko’s headquarters, every hour there are reports to the army commander, he is trying to ingratiate himself.
We arrive frozen through, tired, at Nivitsa. A warm kitchen. A school.
The captivating wife of the schoolmaster, she’s a nationalist, a sort of inner cheerfulness about her, asks all kinds of questions, makes us tea, defends her mowa* your mowa is good and so is my mowa, and always laughter in her eyes. And this in Galicia, this is nice, its been ages since I’ve heard anything like this. I sleep in the classroom, in the straw next to Vinokurov.^
I’ve got a cold.
August 14, 1920
The center of operations—the taking of Busk and the crossing of the Bug. All day long attacking Toporov, no, weve stopped. Another indecisive day. The forest clearing by St[ary] Maidan. The enemy has taken Lopatin.
Toward evening we throw them out. Once again Nivitsa. Spend the night at the house of an old woman, in the yard together with the staff.
August 15, 1920
Morning in Toporov. Fighting near Busk. Headquarters are in Busk. Force our way over the Bug. A blaze on the other side. Budyonny’s in Busk.
Spend the night in Yablonovka with Vinokurov.
August 16, 1920
To Rakobuty, a brigade made it across.
I’m off to interrogate the prisoners.
Once again in Yablonovka. We’re moving on to N[ovy] Milatin, St[ary] Milatin, panic, spend the night in an almshouse.
August 17, 1920
Fighting near the railroad tracks near Liski. The butchering of prisoners.
Spend the night in Zadvurdze.
August 18, 1920
Havent had time to write. Were moving on. We set out on August 13. From that time on we’ve been on the move, endless roads, squadron banners, Apanasenko’s horses, skirmishes, farms, corpses. Frontal attack on Toporov, Kolesnikov9 in the attack, swamps, I am at an observation point, toward evening a hurricane of fire from two batteries. The Polish infantry is waiting in the trenches, our fighters go, return, horse-holders are leading the wounded, Cossacks don’t like frontal attacks, the cursed trenches cloud with smoke. That was the 13th. On the 14th, the division moves to Busk, it has to get there at all cost, by evening we had advanced ten versts. That’s where the main operation has to take place: the crossing of the Bug. At the same time they’re searching for a ford.
A Czech farm at Adamy, breakfast in the farmhouse, potatoes with milk, Sukhorukov thrives under every regime, an ass-kisser, Suslov dances to his tune, as do all the Lyovkas. The main thing: dark forests, transport carts in the forests, candles above the nurses, rumbling, the tempos of troop movement. We’re at a clearing in the forest, the horses are grazing, the airplanes are the heroes of the day, air operations are on the increase, airplane attacks, five-six planes circle endlessly, bombs at a hundred paces, I have an ash-gray gelding, a repulsive horse. In the forest. An intrigue with the nurse: Apanasenko made her a revolting proposition then and there, they say she spent the night with him, now she speaks of him with loathing. She likes Sheko,^ but the divisional military commissar likes her, cloaking his interest in her with the pretext that she is, as he says, without protection, has no means of transport, no protector. She talks of how Konstantin Karlovich** courted her, fed her, forbade others to write her letters, but everyone kept on writing to her. She found Yakovlev^ extremely attractive, and the head of the Registration Department, a blond-haired boy in a red hood asked for her hand and her heart, sobbing like a child. There was also some other story but I couldn’t find out anything about it. The saga of the nurse, and the main thing: they talk a lot about her and everyone looks down on her, her own coachman doesn’t talk to her, her little boots, aprons, she does favors, Bebel brochures.
Woman and Socialism *
One can write volumes about the women in the Red Army. The squadrons set off into battle—dust, rumbling, the baring of sabers, savage cursing—they gallop ahead with hitched-up skirts, dust-covered, fat-breasted, all of them whores, but comrades too, and whores because they are comrades, that’s the most important thing, they serve in every way they can, these heroines, and then they’re looked down upon, they give water to the horses, haul hay, mend harnesses, steal things from churches and from the townsfolk.
Apanasenko’s agitation, his foul language, is it willpower?
Night again in Nivitsa, I sleep somewhere in the straw, because I can’t remember anything, everything in me is lacerated, my body aches, a HUNDRED versts by horse.
I spend the night with Vinokurov. His attitude toward Ivanov.^ What kind of man is this gluttonous, pitiful, tall youth with a soft voice, wilted soul, and sharp mind? The military commissar is unbearably rough with him, swears at him ceaselessly, finds fault with everything: What’s up with you—curses fly—You didn’t do it? Go pack your things, I’m kicking you out!
I have to fathom the soul of the fighter, I am managing, this is all terrible, they’re animals with principles.
Overnight the Second Brigade tookToropov in a nocturnal attack. An unforgettable morning. We move at a fast trot. A terrible, uncanny shtetl, Jews stand at their doors like corpses, I wonder about them: what more are you going to have to go through? Black beards, bent backs, destroyed houses, here there’s [illegible], remnants of German efficiency and comfort, some sort of inexpressible, commonplace, and burning Jewish sadness. There’s a monastery here. Apanasenko is radiant. The Second Brigade rides past. Forelocks, jackets made out of carpets, red tobacco pouches, short carbines, commanders on majestic horses, a Budyonny brigade. Parade, marching bands, we greet you, Sons of the Revolution. Apanasenko is radiant.
We move on from Toporov—forests, roads, the staff on the road,
* Die Frau und der Sozialismus (Woman and Socialism) by August Bebel.
^ Vinokurov’s secretary.
orderlies, brigade commanders, we fly on to Busk at a fast trot, to its eastern part. What an enchanting place (on the 18th an airplane is flying, it will now drop bombs), clean Jewesses, gardens full of pears and plums, radiant noon, curtains, in the houses the remnants of the petite bourgeoisie, a clean and possibly honest simplicity, mirrors, we have been billeted at the house of a fat Galician woman, the widow of a schoolmaster, wide sofas, many plums, unbearable exhaustion from overstrained nerves (a shell came flying, didnt explode), couldn’t fall asleep, lay by the wall next to the horses remembering the dust and the horrible jostle in the transport cart, dust—the majestic phenomenon of our war.
Fighting in Busk. Its on the other side of the bridge. Our wounded. Beauty—over there the shtetl is burning. I ride to the crossing, the sharp experience of battle, have to run part of the way because its under fire, night, the blaze is shining, the horses stand by the huts, a meeting with Budyonny is under way, the members of the Revolutionary War Council* come out, a feeling of danger in the air, we didnt take Busk with our frontal attack, we say good-bye to the
fat Galician woman and drive to Yablonovka deep in the night, the horses are barely moving ahead, we spend the night in a pit, on straw, the division commander has left, the military commissar and I have no strength left.
The First Brigade found a ford and crossed the Bug by Poborzhany. In the morning with Vinokurov at the crossing. So here is the Bug, a shallow little river, the staff is on a hill, the journey has worn me out, I’m sent back to Yablonovka to interrogate prisoners. Disaster. Describe what a horseman feels: exhaustion, the horse wont go on, the ride is long, no strength, the burned steppe, loneliness, no one there to help you, endless versts.
Interrogation of prisoners in Yablonovka. Men in their underwear, exhausted, there are Jews, light-blond Poles, an educated young fellow, blunt hatred toward them, the blood-drenched underwear of a wounded man, hes not given any water, a fat-faced fellow pushes his papers at me. You lucky fellows—I think—how did you get away. They crowd around me, they are happy at the sound of my benevolent voice, miser-
able dust, what a difference between the Cossacks and them, they’re spineless.
From Yablonovka I return by tachanka to the headquarters. Again the crossing, endless lines of transport carts crossing over (they don’t wait even a minute, they are right on the heels of the advancing units), they sink in the river, trace-straps tear, the dust is suffocating, Galician villages, I’m given milk, lunch in a village, the Poles have just pulled out of here, everything is calm, the village dead, stifling heat, midday silence, there’s no one in the village, it is astounding that there is such light, such absolute and unruffled silence, peace, as if the front were well over a hundred versts away. The churches in the villages.
Farther along the road is the enemy. Two naked, butchered Poles with small, slashed faces are glittering through the rye in the sun.
We return to Yablonovka, tea at Lepin’s, dirt, Cherkashin* denigrates him and wants to get rid of him. If you look closely, Cherkashin’s face is dreadful. In his body, tall as a stick, you can see the muzhik—he is a drunkard, a thief, and a cunning bastard.