The Doll (24 page)

Then something unexpected happened. Near us, drums rattled and fifes shrilled in a terrifying manner. The same behind us. Someone yelled ‘Forward!' and goodness knows how many voices echoed the cry like groans or howls. The column moved forward slowly, then faster, began running…The firing almost ceased and only single shots were heard…I hit my chest against something hard, men pushed me from all sides, I pushed too…

‘Kill the Huns!' Katz shrieked in an inhuman voice, rushing ahead. As he could not extricate himself from the throng, he raised his rifle and brought its butt down on the packs of comrades in front. Finally it grew so crowded that my chest began giving way and I could not breathe. I was lifted up, then let fall, and I realised I was not even standing on the ground, but on a man who was gripping my leg.

At this moment the shouting crowd moved ahead and I fell down, my left hand sliding in blood. By me an Austrian officer was lying on his side, a young man, with very aristocratic features. He looked at me, his eyes darkening with inexpressible grief, and he whispered hoarsely: ‘No need to kick…We Germans are human beings too…' He put one hand to his side and groaned pitifully.

I ran after the column. Our men were already on the hill where the Austrian batteries had stood. Climbing up after the others, I saw one cannon on its side, the other harnessed and surrounded by our men. I came upon an unusual scene. Some of our men were clutching the cannon wheels, others pulling it off the carriage: Katz stabbed a horse of the first pair with his bayonet, and an Austrian bombardier was trying to hit him on the head with a cleaning-rod. I seized the bombardier by his collar and hurled him to the ground. Katz wanted to stab him. ‘What are you doing, you madman?' I shouted, pushing his bayonet away.

Then Katz hurled himself furiously at me, but an officer nearby knocked his bayonet away with a sabre. ‘What are you interfering for?' Katz shrieked at the officer, ‘What are you interfering for?'

The two cannons were captured, the hussars hurried after the others. Far ahead our men were standing singly and in groups, firing after the retreating Austrians. Now and then a wandering enemy bullet whistled over our heads or tore into the earth, with a little cloud of dust. The buglers blew the ‘Fall-in'.

An hour later, the regimental bands were playing at various points of the huge battlefield. The adjutant hurried over to congratulate us. The buglers and drummers struck up the call for prayers. We took off our helmets, the ensign bearers raised the banners and the entire army, weapons at their feet, thanked the Hungarian God for victory.

Gradually the smoke died away. As far as the eye could see we saw what looked like scraps of white or navy-blue paper scattered in disorder on the trampled grass in various places. Several carts were moving around the field, and some people were placing these scraps in them. The rest remained. ‘So this is what they were born for,' Katz sighed, leaning on his rifle, overcome by melancholy.

This was just about the last of our victories. From this time on the banners bearing the three rivers went in front of, rather than behind, the enemy, until finally at Vilagos, they fell from their poles like autumn leaves.

When he learned this, Katz threw his sword on the ground (we were both officers by then) and said that he would now shoot himself. I recalled, however, that Napoleon was already installed in France. So I encouraged him, and we crept over to Komorna. We watched for relief for a month: from Hungary, France, even Heaven. Finally Komorna surrendered.

On that day, I remember Katz prowling around the gunpowder store with the same look on his face as when he had wanted to stab the recumbent bombardier. Several of us seized him and took him out of the fortress. ‘What's this?' one of his comrades whispered to him, ‘instead of going into exile with the rest of us, you want to steal a march, do you? Eh, Katz, Hungarian infantry does not take fright or break its word even…to the Huns.'

Five of us got away from the rest of the army, smashed our swords, disguised ourselves as peasants and set off in the direction of Turkey with our revolvers hidden in our clothing. But
Haynau
's pack of hounds caught up with us. Our journey across the pathless plains and woods lasted three weeks. Mud underfoot, autumn rains overhead, patrols before and behind—eternal exile—these were our travelling companions. Nevertheless we were cheerful. Szapary kept saying
Kossuth
would still think of something; Stein was certain Turkey would declare war on our side; Liptak longed for a night's rest and a hot dinner, and I said no matter what happened, Napoleon would not desert us. The rain melted our clothes like butter, we struggled through marshes up to our knees, our soles dropped apart and our boots squeaked like so many bugles: the local people were afraid even to sell us a jug of milk, and peasants chased us away from one village with their hoes and scythes. Despite all this, we were cheerful, and Liptak, as he plunged along beside me so the mud splashed, breathlessly exclaimed: ‘
Eljen Magyar
!…We'll have a good night's sleep…Oh, for a night-cap of slivovica…'

Of all this cheerful company of ragged men who were enough to scare the crows, only Katz was depressed. He needed to rest more than anyone, and somehow grew thinner more rapidly: he was parched all the time, and had a pale glittering in his eyes. ‘I'm afraid he may have camp fever,' said Szapary to me.

Not far from the Sava river on I don't know which day of our wanderings, we found some huts in a lonely neighbourhood, where we were received very hospitably. Dusk had fallen, we were exhausted, but a good fire and a bottle of slivovica brought us more cheerful thoughts. ‘I vow,' Szapary exclaimed, ‘that by March at the latest Kossuth will summon us back to the ranks. We were foolish to break our swords…'

‘Maybe in December the Turkish army will start moving,' Stein added. ‘If only it heals up by that time…'

‘My dear fellows,' Liptak groaned, wrapping himself up in a heap of pea-pods, ‘go to bed for the devil's sake, otherwise neither Kossuth nor the Turks will ever wake us…'

‘That they won't,' Katz muttered. He was sitting on a bench by the hearth, looking sadly into the fire.

‘Katz, you will soon stop believing in heavenly justice,' Szapary exclaimed, frowning.

‘There is no justice for those who don't know how to die with their rifles in their hands,' Katz exclaimed, ‘you are fools and so am I. Will France or Turkey risk their necks for the likes of us? Why didn't you stick your own out?'

‘He's feverish,' Stein whispered, ‘we'll have trouble with him on the way…'

‘Hungary! Hungary doesn't exist any longer!' Katz muttered, ‘equality! There never was equality…Justice! There never will be any.…A pig doesn't mind taking a bath in a bog: but a man with guts.…It's no use, Mr Mincel, I shall never cut up soap for you again.'

I could see that Katz was very sick. I went to him and made him lie down on the pea-pods: ‘Come, August, come…'

‘Where to?' he replied, conscious for a moment. Then he added: ‘They have driven us out of Hungary, I won't join the Huns…' Nevertheless he lay down. The fires went out. We finished off the liquor, then lay down in a row, our pistols within reach. The wind howled through the cracks of the hut, as if all Hungary was weeping, and sleep overcame us.

I dreamed I was a little boy again, and it was Christmas. A tree was glittering on the table, as poor in decoration as we were, and around it were my father, aunt, Mr Raczek and Mr Domański, singing in high-pitched voices the carol: ‘God is born, the powers tremble…'

I awoke sobbing for my childhood. Someone tugged at my arm. It was a peasant, the owner of the hut. He pulled me out of the heap of pea-pods, pointed in alarm to Katz and said: ‘Look there, Mr Soldier…something is wrong…' He picked up a twig from the hearth and lit it. I looked. Katz was lying hunched up, with his spent pistol in one hand. Red flashes flew before my eyes and it seems I fainted.

I came to my senses in a cart, just as we were arriving at the Sava river. Day was breaking, a clear day was coming: a penetrating dampness rose out of the water. I rubbed my eyes, counted…There were four of us in the cart, and the fifth was the driver. But there ought to be five…no, six! I looked for Katz, but could not see him. I did not inquire about him: a sob caught my throat and I thought it would choke me. Liptak was dozing, Stein rubbing his eyes and Szapary was looking away, whistling the Rakoczy march though he kept hitting wrong notes.

Eh, Katz, what did you do? Sometimes now it seems to me you have found the Hungarian infantry and your platoon in Heaven…Sometimes I hear again the rattle of drums, the brisk rhythm of the march, and the order: ‘Present arms!' and I think it must be you, Katz, going to change the guard before the Heavenly Throne…For He would be a poor Hungarian God if he did not recognise you…

… But I have been wandering, for goodness sake…I was thinking about Wokulski, yet here I am writing about myself and Katz. So I will now return to my subject.

A few days after Katz's death, we reached Turkey and for two years I—alone now—wandered through Europe. I was in Italy, France, Germany, even England, and everywhere I was troubled with poverty and devoured by home-sickness. Sometimes it seemed to me I would go out of my mind listening to the flood of foreign tongues and seeing faces that were not ours, costumes not ours, earth not ours. Sometimes I'd have given my life just to see a pine wood and some straw-thatched huts. Sometimes I cried out in my sleep like a child: ‘I want to go home…' and when I awoke, bathed in tears, I would dress and run along the streets, for it seemed to me that these streets just certainly led to the Old City or Podwale. I might even have done away with myself in despair, had it not been for frequent news of Louis Napoleon, who had become President and was thinking of becoming Emperor. It was easier for me to bear poverty and to stifle outbursts of grief when I heard of the triumphs of a man who was to execute the will and testament of Napoleon I, and bring back order into the world. Admittedly he did not succeed in doing so—but he left his son. And Rome, after all, was not built in a day…

Finally I could bear it no longer and in December 1851 I crossed Galicia and stopped at the Tomaszow frontier post. Only one thought troubled me: ‘Suppose they drive me away from here too?' I shall never forget my joy when I heard I could travel on to Zamość. Not that I travelled much, for I walked mostly, yet what a relief it was!

I stayed over a year in Zamość
. And because I was handy at chopping wood, I was in the open air every day. I wrote a letter to Mincel, and got a reply from him, even some money: but with the exception of the receipt, I do not recall details of this incident. It seems, however, that Jan Mincel did something more, though to his dying day he never referred to it, and did not want to mention it. He visited several generals who had fought in the Hungarian campaign, and told them that after all they ought to save a comrade in misfortune. And so they did: in February 1853 I was allowed to travel to Warsaw. Even my officer's patent was returned to me: the one souvenir I brought back from Hungary, not counting two wounds in my chest and leg. The officers even gave me a dinner, at which we drank copiously to the health of the Hungarian infantry. From that time, I have always believed that the closest friendships are formed on the battlefield.

Hardly had I left my temporary abode in Zamość, as penniless as a Turkish beggar, when an unknown Jew stopped me and handed me a letter with money in it. It said:

The Jew took me to his house, where I was given a bag containing a change of linen, clothes and shoes. They fed me goose soup, then stewed goose, then roast goose, which I could not digest until I had reached Lublin. He also presented me with a bottle of excellent mead, led me to a cart that was waiting but would not hear of any reward for his pains. ‘I'd be ashamed, that I would, to take money from a person back from exile,' he replied to all my urging. Not until I was about to climb into the cart did he draw me aside and look around to see whether anyone was listening before whispering: ‘I'll buy Hungarian ducats, sir, if you have any. I'll pay a good price, I need 'em for my daughter, who's getting married after the New Year…'

‘I have no ducats,' I said.

‘In the Hungarian war but no ducats?' he said, in surprise.

I had no sooner set my foot on the cart step when the same Jew again drew me aside: ‘Maybe you have some jewellery then?…Rings, watches, bracelets? I'll pay you well, that I shall—it's for my daughter….'

‘Brother, I have none, I give you my word…'

‘No?' he echoed, his eyes wide open, ‘well, why did you go to Hungary then?'

We moved off but he stayed where he was, clutching his beard and shaking his head sorrowfully.

The cart had been engaged for me alone. But as soon as we turned the corner, the driver met his brother, who had urgent business to attend to in Krasnystaw. ‘Allow me to take him, honoured sir,' he begged, doffing his cap to me. ‘If the road is bad, he will walk…'

The passenger got in. Before we had reached the fortress gate, a Jewish woman with a bag stopped us and began conferring noisily with the driver. It turned out that she was his aunt, who had a sick child in Fajslawice. ‘Allow her to get in, honoured sir…she is a very light person…' the driver said.