by Karel Čapek
The historian Usinski records a similar battle at Gorochovky, Leblond a skirmish at Le Batignolles, and Van Goo a fight near Nieuport; but it would seem that local patriotism influenced them more directly than genuinely historical motives. In short, no one knows which was the last battle of the Greatest War. Nevertheless, it can be determined with considerable certitude from documents that are striking in their agreement, i.e. the series of prophecies that appeared before the Greatest War.
For example, a phophecy printed in Swabian characters had been preserved since 1845, foretelling that in a hundred years “terrible times will come, and many armed men will fall in battle,” but that “in a hundred months thirteen nations would meet in the field under a birch-tree, and slaughter each other in a desperate struggle,” which would be followed by fifty years of peace.
In the year 1893 the Turkish prophetess Wali Schön (?) predicted that “five times twelve years would pass ere peace would reign over the whole world; in that year thirteen emperors would make war upon each other and would meet in battle under a birch-tree. Then there would be peace, such a peace as there had never been before and never would be again.”
The vision of a certain negress in Massachusetts is also quoted, dating from 1909, when she beheld “a black monster with two horns, a yellow monster with three horns, and a red monster with eight horns, fighting under a tree (birch-tree?) until their blood besprinkled the whole world.” It is interesting to note that the total number of horns is thirteen, apparently symbolical of the thirteen nations.
In 1920 the Very Reverend Dr. Arnold foretold that “there would be a great Twenty Years’ War in which the whole world would be involved. One great Emperor would perish in that war, three great Empires would fall, ninety-nine capital cities would be destroyed, and the last battle of that war would be the last battle of the century.”
To the same year belong “The Vision of Jonathan” (printed in Stockholm): “War and pestilence will lay waste nine-and-ninety countries, and nine-and-ninety kingdoms will vanish and rise again. The last battle will last nine-and-ninety hours, and will be so bloody that all the victors will be able to find room in the shade of one birch-tree.”
A German popular prophecy dating from 1923 speaks of the battle on the Birkenfeld (Birch field).
More than two hundred similar prophetic documents of the period between 1845 and 1944 have been preserved. In forty-eight of these the number “thirteen” occurs; in seventy of them the “birch-tree” appears; in fifteen merely the “tree.” It may therefore be concluded that the last battle took place in the neighbourhood of a birch-tree. Who took part in the struggle we do not know, but there were altogether only thirteen men left alive out of the various armies, and they presumably lay down after the battle in the shade of a birch-tree. That moment saw the end of the Greatest War.
It is, however, possible that the “birch” is brought in symbolically, instead of a place-name. There are one hundred and seven places in the country of the Czechs alone containing the Czech word for birch, such as Brezany, Brezovice, and Brezolupy. Then there is the German Birke and names like Birkenberg, Birkenfeld, Birkenhaid, Birkenhammer, Birkicht, Birkental, etc.; or the English Birkenhead, Birchington, Birchanger, and so on; or the French Boulainvilliers, Boulay, etc. Thus the number of towns, villages, and localities where the last battle in all probability took place is narrowed down to a few thousand (as long as we confine ourselves to Europe, which certainly has a prior claim to the Last Battle). Individual scientific research will establish where it occurred. Who won it cannot possibly be determined.
But perhaps after all—the fancy is alluring—there did stand near the scene of the last act of the world-tragedy a slender silvery birch. Perhaps a lark sang above the battle-field and a white butterfly fluttered over the heads of the combatants. And look, by this time there is hardly anyone left to kill! It is a hot October day, and one hero after another steps aside, turns his back upon the battle-field, eases himself, and lies down longing for peace in the shadow of the birch-tree. At last the whole thirteen of them are lying there, all the survivors of the Last Battle. One lays his weary head on his neighbour’s boots, another rests his on the first man’s back, undisturbed by his breathing. The last thirteen soldiers left in the world as asleep beneath a birch-tree.
Towards evening they waken, look at each other with suspicion, and reach for their weapons. And then one of them—history will never learn his name—says, “Oh, damn it, boys, let’s chuck it!”
“Right you are, mate,” says the second man with relief, laying aside his weapon.
“Give us a bit of bacon, then, fathead,” the third one asks with a certain gentleness.
The fourth man returns, “Crikey, I could do with a smoke. Hasn’t anybody got a—?”
“Let’s clear off, boys,” urges the fifth. “We’re not going to have any more of it.”
“I’ll give you a cigarette,” says the sixth, “but you’ll have to give me a bit of bread.”
“We’re going home, boys . . . think of it . . . home,” the seventh one cries.
“Is your old woman expecting you?” the eighth man asks.
“My God, it’s six years since I slept in a proper bed,” sighs the ninth.
“What a mug’s game it was, lads!” says the tenth man, spitting disgustedly.
“It was that!” the eleventh replies, “but we’ve done with it now.”
“We’ve done with it,” repeats the twelfth man. “We’re not such fools. Let’s go home, mates!”
“Oh, but I’m glad it’s all over,” concludes the thirteenth, turning over to lie on the other side.
And such, one can well imagine, was the end of the Greatest War.
CHAPTER XXX
THE END OF EVERYTHING
MANY years went by. Brych the stoker, now the proprietor of a locksmith’s business, was sitting in the Damohorsky tavern, reading a copy of the People’s Journal.
“The liver sausages will be ready in a minute,” announced the landlord, emerging from the kitchen. And bless me if it wasn’t old Jan Binder, who used to own the merry-go-round. He had grown fat and no longer wore his striped jersey; nevertheless it was he!
“There’s no hurry,” Mr. Brych answered slowly. “Father Jost hasn’t turned up yet. Nor Rejzek either.”
“And—how is Mr. Kuzenda getting along?” Jan Binder inquired.
“Oh, well, you know. He’s not very grand. He’s one of the best men breathing, Mr. Binder.”
“He is, indeed,” assented the innkeeper. “I don’t know . . . Mr. Brych . . . what about taking him a few liver sausages with my compliments? They’re first class, Mr. Brych, and if you’d be so kind . . .”
“Why, with pleasure, Mr. Binder. He’ll be delighted to think you remember him. Of course I will. With pleasure!”
“Praise be the Lord!” came a voice from the doorway, and Canon Jost stepped into the room, his cheeks ruddy with the cold, and hung up his hat and fur coat.
“Good evening, your Reverence,” responded Mr. Brych. “We’ve waited for you—we’ve waited.”
Father Jost pursed his lips contentedly and rubbed his stiffened hands. “Well, sir, what’s in the papers, what have they got to say to-day?”
“I was just reading this: ‘The President of the Republic has appointed that youthful savant, Dr. Blahous, Lecturer at the University, to be Assistant Professor.’ You remember, Canon, it’s that Blahous who once wrote an article about Mr. Kuzenda.”
“Aha, aha,” said Father Jost, wiping his little spectacles. “I know, I know, the atheist. They are a lot of infidels at the University. And you’re another, Mr. Brych.”
“Come, his Reverence will pray for us, I know,” said Mr. Binder. “He’ll want us in heaven to make up the card-party. Well, your Reverence, two and one?”
“Yes, of course, two and one.”
Mr. Binder opened the kitchen door and shouted:
“Two liver sausages and one blood-sausage.”
“‘Evening!” growled Rejzek, the journalist, entering the room. “It’s cold, friends.”
“It’s a very pleasant evening,” chirped Mr. Binder. “We don’t get company like this every day.”
“Well, what’s the news?” inquired Father Jost gaily. “What’s going on in the editorial sanctum? Ah, yes, I used to write for the papers myself in my young days.”
“By the way, that fellow Blahous mentioned me in the paper too that time,” said Mr. Brych. “I’ve still got the cutting somewhere: ‘The Apostle of Kuzenda’s Sect,’ or something like that, he called me. Yes, yes, those were the days!”
“Let’s have supper,” ordered Mr. Rejzek. Mr. Binder and his daughter were already setting sausages on the table. They were still sizzling, covered with frothing bubbles of fat, and they reclined upon crisp sauerkraut like Turkish odalisques on cushions. Father Jost clicked his tongue resoundingly and cut into the first beauty before him.
“Splendid,” said Mr. Brych after a while.
“Mhm,” came from Mr. Rejzek after a lengthier interval.
“Binder, these do you credit,” said the Canon approvingly.
A silence ensued, full of appreciation and pious meditations.
“Allspice,” contributed Mr. Brych. “I love the smell of it.”
“But it mustn’t be too much in evidence.”
“No, this is just as it should be.”
“And the skin must be just crisp enough.”
“Mhm.” And again conversation ceased for a space.
“And the sauerkraut must be nice and white.”
“In Moravia,” said Mr. Brych, “they make the sauerkraut like a sort of porridge. I was there as an apprentice. It’s quite runny.”
“Oh, come,” exclaimed Father Jost. “Sauerkraut has to be strained. Don’t talk such nonsense. Why, the stuff wouldn’t be fit to eat.”
“Well, there you are . . . they do eat it that way down there. With spoons.”
“Horrible!” cried the Canon, marvelling. “What extraordinary people they must be, friends! Why, sauerkraut should only just be greased, shouldn’t it, Mr. Binder? I don’t understand how anyone could have it any other way.”
“Well, you know,” said Mr. Brych meditatively, “it’s just the same with sauerkraut as it is with religion. One man can’t understand how another can believe anything different.”
“Oh, enough of that!” protested Father Jost. “Why, I’d sooner believe in Mahomet than eat sauerkraut made any other way. After all, reason teaches one that sauerkraut ought only to be greased.”
“And don’t reason teach one one’s religion.”
“Our religion, certainly,” said the Canon decisively. “But the others are not based on reason.”
“Now we’ve got back again to just where we were before the war,” sighed Mr. Brych.
“People are always getting back just where they used to be,” observed Mr. Binder. “That’s what Mr. Kuzenda is always saying. ‘Binder,’ he often says, ‘the truth can never be defeated. You know, Binder,’ he says, ‘that God of ours on the dredge in those days wasn’t so bad, nor was yours on the merry-go-round, and yet, you see, they’ve both of them vanished. Everyone believes in his own superior God, but he doesn’t believe in another man, or credit him with believing in something good. People should first of all believe in other people, and the rest would soon follow.’ That’s what Mr. Kuzenda always says.”
“Yes, yes,” assented Mr. Brych. “A man may certainly think that another religion is a bad one, but he oughtn’t to think that the man who follows it is a low, vile, and treacherous fellow. And the same applies to politics and everything.”
“And that’s what so many people have hated and killed each other for,” Father Jost declared. “You know, the greater the things are in which a man believes, the more fiercely he despises those who do not believe in them. And yet the greatest of all beliefs would be belief in one’s fellow-men.”
“Everyone has the best of feelings towards mankind in general, but not towards the individual man. We’ll kill men, but we want to save mankind. And that isn’t right, your Reverence. The world will be an evil place as long as people don’t believe in other people.”
“Mr. Binder,” said Father Jost thoughtfully, “I wonder if you would make me some of that Moravian sauerkraut to-morrow. I’d like to try it.”
“It has to be partly stewed and then steamed, and done like that with a fried sausage it’s very good. Every religion and every truth has something good in it, if it’s only the fact that it suits somebody else.”
The door was opened from outside, and a policeman stepped in. He was chilled to the bone and wanted a glass of rum.
“Ah, it’s you, is it, Sergeant Hruska,” said Brych. “Well now, where have you come from?”
“Oh, we’ve been up in Zizkov,” answered the policeman, pulling off his enormous gloves. “There was a raid on.”
“What did you catch?”
“Oh, a couple of roughs, and a few undesirables. And then at number 1006—in the cellar of the house, I mean—there was a den.”
“What sort of den?” inquired Mr. Rejzek.
“A Karburator den, sir. They had set up a tiny Karburator down there out of an old pre-war motor. A very low crowd has been going down there and holding orgies.”
“What kind of orgies do you mean?”
“Oh, disorderly behaviour. They pray and sing and have visions and prophesy and perform miracles, and all that sort of business.”
“And isn’t that allowed?”
“No, it’s forbidden by the police. You see, it’s something like those dens where they smoke opium. We found one of them in the Old Town. We’ve routed out seven of these Karburator caverns already. An awful gang used to collect there: vagrants, loose women, and other doubtful characters. That’s why it’s forbidden. It’s a breach of the peace.”
“And are there many haunts of this kind?”
“Not now. I think this one was the last of the Karburators.”
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