Jacob's Ladder

by Ludmila Ulitskaya

  Write me at the following address:

  Zlatoust, Ufimskaya Guberniya

  196th Infantry, Insarksy Regiment

  Training Detachment

  To: Volunteer Jacob Ossetsky

  NOVEMBER 3, 1912

  My duties have not yet begun. For the time being, I’m just observing my surroundings. I spend all my time in the office, together with one other person. I take my meals in the Officers’ Assembly. The food is quite tasty and cheap. I buy my breakfast in the regiment store. Now I can even read the newspaper. They will give me The New Times every day in the Officers’ Assembly. For the time being, I wear my own clothes. The accoutrements will be ready in a week. You must order two uniforms. One of them you give to the armory for safekeeping (for parades, celebrations, and campaigns), and the other is for everyday wear.

  It’s a good thing I arrived in my student uniform. Everyone noticed it, the officers inquired about it, and today some soldier even saluted me. My superior in the training detachment asks: “Where are you studying? Are you in college? What grade are you in?” (That’s how much they understand about higher education.)

  I’m so glad I brought books with me to read. I should have taken more, not just on specialized subjects. I’ve already done some studying today. There isn’t even a regiment library here, and the town is six versts away. The Officers’ Assembly only subscribes to The New Times and Russian Invalid. And that’s in an officers’ club, of all places. Maybe in the General Assembly there are a few more newspapers and periodicals.

  The first day, I was very circumspect and cautious. I looked around me anxiously. I kept thinking they would grab me and send me to the guardhouse (military prison). In the evening, I sighed in relief and said my prayers—I’m joking, of course.

  An officer I was conversing with said this to me: “There may be worse regiments than this one, but I doubt there are better ones.” Maybe he’s right.

  THE NEXT DAY …

  I got leave to go to town today. While I’m still not in uniform, I have a great deal of freedom. I don’t take part in training yet. I just walk around among the soldiery and observe. And I come across many things that interest me. Now I’m going into the city. I’ll send you this letter from there. If I mail it directly from the station, you’ll receive it a day earlier. Letters don’t leave the regiment mailbox until the following day …

  SEPARATE PAGE, TO THE KIDS

  NOVEMBER 3, 1912

  Dear kids! I got your letter in the mail. It made me very glad. Use my paper and ink wisely! Form a committee, choose a chairman, and make your own decisions. You have my approval, in advance.

  You know that this place is called Zlatoust—meaning “Goldmouth.” But if you think that Zlatoust is full of golden mouths and that the soldiers ride around on cannons all day long, think again. So far, I haven’t even noticed any golden mouths, or even any golden mustaches. The mouths you see here are the kinds you’d never want to kiss! And the soldiers don’t ride around on cannons, because there are no cannons in sight either. Poor soldiers! If only they could!

  They haven’t made me a general yet, and they haven’t entrusted me with a golden sword. But in time, God willing, both things will come true. You’ll see!

  For the time being, though, I’m just a soldier. But you probably don’t know what this means. Let me explain. I open the manual for young soldiers, and this is what I read (page 16): “The word ‘soldier’ is a common one, familiar to all. Every subject who has sworn allegiance to the Tsar and who agrees to carry out the sweet and heartfelt obligation to defend the Faith, the Imperial Throne, and the homeland is given the name ‘soldier.’ He must do battle with both internal and external enemies.” That’s me. Attention! I’m everyman, and famous! I’ll defeat enemies, internal and external, with my gun! (Senya, I have a rifle, a real rifle. And it shoots.)

  NOVEMBER 12, 1912

  Perhaps you’re interested in my economic situation and domestic affairs, Mama?

  I bought thick woolen socks in Zlatoust. I also got a mattress. That’s about all. I have need of a small basket—after one change of clothes, I keep my dirty linen in a large basket. When it comes time for a second change, I have things laundered. You aren’t allowed to keep more than two changes of linen in the basket.

  I can’t wait for my uniform to arrive. It puts me in an awkward situation not to have it. When I meet an officer from my detachment in the street, I still have to salute. Yes, sir; No, sir; Good morning, sir—I already have that down pat. But it’s somehow a shame for my student uniform. In any event, I should be getting the uniform tomorrow or the next day.

  SEPARATE PAGE, TO THE OSSETSKY KIDS

  Wait a bit and I’ll be sending each of you your own letter. But for now, this is how it has to be. I’m writing to the whole flock!

  Senya, what books on the history of Russian literature are you talking about? You have to tell me the name of the author, not the color of the cover. What if you colored it yourself? Grisha, you haven’t written a word to me. And I’m so interested in your studies.

  The city of Zlatoust is high in the mountains. The mountains are so high that you can’t even see the top. And they’re covered with forest, thick pine forest. You can’t collect rocks and minerals here, because the snow is very, very deep. In the summer, I’ll search for them, though, and by the first of November, you’ll receive them.

  There are many Tatars living in this city. But they don’t sell old things; and some of them even sell very new things. So they aren’t called “rag-and-bone men” here. All the people here (Tatars included) walk down the middle of the street, not on the sidewalk. I don’t know why myself. Maybe you can guess? Could it be because there aren’t any sidewalks to walk on?

  There are lots of soldiers here. So many that Rayechka wouldn’t be able to count them all. Or has she already learned to count to a hundred? Eva, write me about what you’re reading now. Who chooses books for you to read? And what Senya is reading, too.

  A big hello, from Zlatoust all the way to Kiev and back. And that’s no small hello! It travels a thousand versts.

  NOVEMBER 14, 1912

  Slowly but surely, I’m settling into military life. It’s a very special field of activity, which you civilians have no inkling of. The soldier’s life has its own particular hardships and its own particular joys. And you can’t avoid any of them.

  When I take a good hard look at the people who surround me (and they are all officers and soldiers), I have to consider myself to be the happiest of them all. The officers here are bored in the extreme. They curse both the service and Zlatoust. Soldiers are downtrodden, browbeaten creatures. They all suffer, and make one another suffer. What does it matter to me? In a year, I will have fulfilled my term of duty, and I’ll wipe it all from my memory. I’ll go home—and goodbye, Zlatoust. But they will all be staying right here.

  Our regiment is stationed in four places: a unit in Zlatoust, one in Chelyabinsk (six hours away), and two in factories not far from Zlatoust. Small towns. My own Twelfth Company is stationed at the Katav-Ivanovsky Ironworks (three or four hours away). After I complete my “training course” in the detachment, they’ll send me to the company. But this will happen only after the summer camps. For the time being, you can write to me at the Training Detachment, 196th Infantry, Insarsky Regiment. The camps take place in different locations every year. In recent years, they took place near Chelyabinsk, another time near Samara …

  NOVEMBER 16, 1912

  Change is afoot in my life. It seems I’ll be leaving for my company very soon. In the company, it will be a lot better than in the detachment. The crème de la crème of the soldiery is found in the detachment. They choose the best people, who go through a special school and, after finishing the course in one year (with a “diploma” in hand), are assigned as teachers to the young soldiers. And they get the highest soldiers’ ranks: corporals, junior and senior noncommissioned officers, and sergeant majors. They study for the entire day in t
he detachment. And the discipline is much more stringent than in the company. Of course, this does not affect me at all. I sit around doing nothing all day. I go to bed and get up whenever I want to. I even have time to study! To my great disappointment, all roads to promotion in the ranks are closed to me. A Jew can become a corporal—but nothing higher. The way is barred. My career as a soldier is over. This is why they are transferring me from the training detachment to the company. All the volunteers (Russians) envy me.

  The conditions of barracks life are quite decent, but when I enter the company, they will improve.

  If I were from this area, they might even let me live at home. But barracks life is not as terrible as you might think. It’s spotlessly clean. No sign of bedsheet fauna. They are very strict about cleanliness. You’re punished for even the most minute spot of dirt. For a torn shirt, dirty hands, toenails, mud-stained legs and puttees, an unmade bed, dust on surfaces, a cigarette smoked in the barracks—punishment! It’s extremely effective. The ventilation is good. I had to sleep for a few nights in a common barracks. Can you imagine that in a place that houses twenty-five people (soldiers, at that!) the air is as fresh in the morning as it was during the day? It’s quite incredible, but it’s true.

  The walls of the barracks are lined with pine boughs.

  I’m eating well. I go to the Officers’ Assembly to eat. I eat both lunch and dinner there, and drink my tea.

  ZLATOUST–MOSCOW JACOB TO MARUSYA

  NOVEMBER 19, 1912

  I write my parents about the everyday details of my life. They aren’t really interested in anything else. The longing I feel here I can describe only to you. What I lack here is—You, Music, Books. There is simply no cultural life whatsoever. Even the officers are poorly educated. Among them are, of course, some wonderful and sincere people. I must learn to survive this year without all of those things that are the very stuff of life for me. Even, it seems, without study. It is very difficult to find time here during the day. Envy is an ugly feeling, but something like it has taken hold of me. Somewhere in Kiev, in Moscow, in Paris, the life that intrigues me, the life I can participate in, is going on without me. How marvelous it is, Marusya, that you are able to study, and you have your school, and the courses, and a life filled with both intellectual and physical activity. In an article by M. Voloshin, which I happened to read last year, he describes in a very compelling way your Bewegung, but he also discusses the artistic side of things and holds in high regard the performances of Mrs. Rabenek’s troupe. And, poor me, I have yet to see them! I have never once witnessed you onstage! And when will I get the chance? My imagination paints a sublime but dim spectacle for me.

  My longing is only augmented by the constant sense of your absence. I think that a romantic lover would put it differently: I am always aware of your presence! Alas, I feel only absence. And the complete absence of letters. Only one postcard in all this time!

  ZLATOUST–KIEV JACOB TO HIS PARENTS

  NOVEMBER 19, 1912

  This is one of the rare moments of silence in the barracks. The troops have gone to the city for a scheduled review. It’s nice and quiet. I received your letter yesterday. It didn’t take long at all to arrive here—just five days. Four days and six hours en route. Thus, 102 hours altogether. As long as it takes to get from Kiev to, say, London.

  About clothing and the climate. The winter here is not terribly harsh. It rarely gets colder than fifteen or twenty below (Fahrenheit). And, in general, I love the cold. In spring, it’s worse. There are mists and fog from the mountains, dampness … But it doesn’t pose a problem, since I don’t catch cold very often.

  The overcoat lined with quilted cotton batting—your advice, Mama!—isn’t permitted, and it would be inconvenient, because I couldn’t roll it up and wear it over my shoulder. Moreover, it would be extremely hard to carry out the manual of arms. If it gets terribly cold, I’ll wear more layers of underwear. That will suffice. Actually, it’s only on their feet that soldiers feel the cold. I’ll have to think about what to do. I was advised to buy government-issue boots (the best ones cost three or four rubles). They are very roomy, so you can wrap many layers of puttees around your feet. That’s what I’ll do. I bought some woolen socks, and they’ve already worn through. Puttees are better. So I advise you not to worry, Mama. It’s obvious that if it’s cold, or if something’s uncomfortable, unpleasant, I’ll try to get warm and comfortable and feel better as soon as possible, in any way I can.

  I received my uniform—that is, the order for it arrived at the company. Tomorrow the order will be delivered to the tailor, and they will take my measurements. It will be ready in about six days. That means I won’t be a full-fledged soldier until after November 25. All this time, I have been idle, from the point of view of a soldier’s duty. I don’t attend training, or take part in formations. I practiced gymnastics for a few days, and rifle disassembly; but then they sent me to the office unit, where I have nothing to do. On the other hand, I can spend some time with my books. Many thanks for the Kiev newspaper. I can’t subscribe to it here, however. I often read The New Times in the Officers’ Assembly, where I take my meals. And sometimes I buy The Russian Word at the train station.

  You tell me that business is good this year, Papa. I’d love to know about it in more detail: about the mill, the hay transport, and the “Berlin” barges—whether navigation is still possible … Before I left, you said I would be your assistant after I finish the Institute. Well, an assistant has to know the details! This will be my main activity, rather than music. Perhaps you were right. There are places on this earth where music simply doesn’t exist.

  Yesterday I was sitting on my bunk and reading a book in German. Some soldiers came in and asked me to read it aloud to them. I read, and they listened attentively.

  Once, in a lesson on Divine Law, one of them answered, very confidently, “Moses was born in a basket”!

  A SEPARATE PAGE

  Dear kids! Your letters make me so happy! So write me as much as you can. I want to know about everything, everything interests me. About Ivan the Terrible, and about stamps, and about your new pencil.

  Yesterday I took a walk in the woods and was very sad you weren’t with me. The forest is thick, fir trees everywhere you look … It’s quiet, there’s no one around. The snow is deep. And the road in the forest is narrow. When I met an oncoming wagon and had to step out of the way, my legs sank into the snow past my knees! That’s how deep it is. Now everything is covered with snow. And the river Ai and the river Tesma look like big snowy plains.

  MOSCOW–ZLATOUST MARUSYA TO JACOB

  Postcard

  NOVEMBER 20, 1912

  I have three postal receipts—for Zlatoust … I’ve sent three letters: on the 8th, the 10th, and the 16th. I can’t even remember how many postcards I’ve sent. I don’t understand it. If the letters have gone astray, I’ll complain in no uncertain terms! Devil take it! It’s so frustrating and unpleasant. I’m furious!

  ZLATOUST–MOSCOW JACOB TO MARUSYA

  NOVEMBER 20, 1912

  My Sweet Marusya! Your postcard arrived! I thought I’d never get a letter from you. I’d much rather fault the postal system than look for another reason. And the reasons that occurred to me I won’t even bother telling you. After writing three letters to you and not getting an answer, I was almost convinced that I had only dreamed Marusya, the one and only Marusya. And our summer strolls through Kiev, and our secret Lustdorf, and my wife—they were all a mirage. And our trip to Moscow (which I hardly noticed) was enveloped in Marusya’s shadow, like a hallucination or psychological aberration of some sort. And introducing you to my family—how worried I was that you wouldn’t like them, or they you. Only I didn’t worry about the kids, I knew they would love you. All of these memories were like a theater of shadows. Had they ever happened? But now I look at your postcard, and it’s proof that you exist. You write that you are furious, and that means you are you. I’m furious, ergo sum! Furious, therefore I am.
Ah, I never learned Latin, and you won’t find a dictionary around here for miles. For three weeks already, I have been trying to persuade myself that life here is interesting nevertheless, that I have to delve into it, to make something of myself within this strange term of duty—in a word, that I have to accept all the gifts life brings, even the fact that you shimmered in my sky, then flashed on past, as shooting stars have a habit of doing.

  ZLATOUST–KIEV JACOB TO HIS PARENTS

  DECEMBER 6, 1912

  Today is a holiday. The Feast of St. Nicholas, the patron saint of our Tsar. Would you like me to describe to you, my dear ones, how the barracks celebrates this holiday? In complete idleness. People read the drill regulations manual and do exercises, while five accordions are playing and everyone is spinning yarns and playing the fool. The first platoon is singing songs. You don’t believe me?

  Here’s a soldier, asleep. A noncommissioned officer and a few soldiers sidle up to him. The officer swings his belt above his head like an incense censer, and intones, “Remember, O Lord, the soul of the deceased soldier so-and-so!” The chorus chimes in, “Lord, have mercy on him.” They sing in harmony. Someone opens the drill regulations manual and recites it out loud, like the Gospels.

  It ends with the “deceased” sitting bolt upright, then leaping up and chasing around the “priest” and the “choirboys.” There’s a friendly tussle, which then escalates into a war. Platoon against platoon. The platoon commander himself serves as the banner flag. They capture him, and he shouts from the other room, “Boys, rescue me, give it all you’ve got!”