Chapter 7

We soldiers had long become tired of our drill and our manoeuvres; we got tired of "attacking" under the feint of a "retreat," and of "retreating" under the feint of an "attack." We were disgusted with standing in line and discharging our guns into the air, without ever seeing the enemy. In our days a soldier hated feints and make-believes. "Get at your enemy and crush his head, or lie down yourself a crushed 'cadaver'"--that was our way of fighting, and that was the way we won victories. As our general used to say: "The bullet is a blind fool, but the bayonet is the real thing."

At last, at last, we heard the quick, nervous notes of the bugle, and the hurried beats of the drum, the same we used to hear year in, year out. But till that moment it was all "make-believe" drill. It was like what we mean by the passage in the Passover Haggodah: "Any one who is in need may come, and partake of the Passah-lamb. . . ." Till that moment we used to attack the air with our bayonets and pierce space right and left, "as if" the enemy had been before us, ready for our steel. We were accustomed to pierce and to vanquish the air and spirits, and that is all. At the same time there was something wonderful, sweet, and terrible in those blasts of the bugle, something that was the very secret of soldiery, something that went right into our souls when we returned home from our drill. . . .

But on that day it was not drill any more, and not make-believe any more, no! Before us was the real enemy, looking into our very eyes and thirsting for our blood.

Then, just for a moment I thought of myself, of my own flesh, which was not made proof against the sharp steel. I remembered that I had many an account to settle in this world; that I had started many a thing and had not finished it; and that there was much more to start. I thought of my own enemies, whom I had not harmed as yet. I thought of my friends, to whom I had so far done no good. In short, I thought I was just in the middle of my lifework, and that the proper moment to die had not yet come. But all that came as a mere flash. For in the line of battle my own self was dissolved, as it were, and was lost, just like the selves of all who were there. I became a new creature with new feelings and a new consciousness. But the thing cannot be described: one has to be a soldier and stand in the line of battle to feel it. You may say, if you like, that I believe that the angel-protectors of warring nations descend from on high, and in the hour of battle enter as new souls into the soldiers of the line.

Then and there an end came also to the vicissitudes of my Barker. I found him dead, stretched out at full length on a bank of earth, which was the monument over the grave of the heroes of the first day's fighting. In the morning they all went to battle in the full flowering of strength and thirsty for victory, only to be dragged down at night into that hole, to be buried there. Well, the earth knows no distinction between one race and another; its worms feed alike on Jew and Gentile. But there, in Heaven, they surely know the difference between one soul and another, and each one is sent to its appointed place.

I was told that Jacob was among those buried in the common grave. Quite likely. I whispered a Kaddish over the grave, giving it the benefit of the doubt.

Of course, I was not foolish enough to cry over the cadaver of a dog; and yet it was a pity. After all, it was a living creature, too; it had shared all kinds of things with me: exile, hunger, rations, blows. And it had loved me, too. . . .

The next morning we were out again. In a moment line faced line, man faced man, enemy faced enemy. It was a mutual murderous attraction, a bloodthirsty love, a desire to embrace and to kill.

It was very much like the pull I felt towards Marusya.

. . . . Lightening. . . . shots. . . . thunder. . . . The talk of the angel-protectors it is. . . . Snakes of fire flying upward, spreading out . . . . shrapnel . . . . bombs a-bursting . . . . soldiers standing . . . . reeling . . . . falling . . . . crushed, or lapping their own blood. . . . Thinning lines . . . . breast to breast. . . . Hellish howls over the field. . . .

Crashing comes the Russian music, drowning all that hellish chorus, pouring vigor, might, and hope into the hearts of men. . . .

Alas, the music breaks off. . . . Where is the bugle? . . . . The trumpet is silenced. . . . The trombone breaks off in the middle of a note. . . . Only one horn is left. . . . Higher and higher rise its ringing blasts, chanting, as it were, "Yea, thought I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for Thou art with me!"

In mighty embrace men clasp one another. . . . Stabbing, being stabbed . . . . killing, being killed. . . . .

I work away right and left, I expect my death-blow at every moment, but I seem to be charmed: swords and bayonets surround me, but never touch me. . . .

Yes, it was a critical moment; it could not last much longer; one side had to give way.

But the Russians could not retreat, because in their very midst the priest was standing, the ikon of the Virgin in one hand and the crucifix in the other.

The soldiers looked at the images, got up new courage, and did wonders.

Do you remember the Biblical story of the brazen serpent? That was just like it.

Well, a bullet came flying, whistling, through the air, and the priest fell. Then the ikon and the crucifix began to wobble this way and that way, and fell down, too. The soldiers saw it, lost heart, and wanted to run.

At that moment I felt as if I were made of three different men.

Just imagine: Samuel the individual, Samuel the soldier, and Samuel the Jew.

Says Samuel the individual: "You have done well enough, and it is all over for now. Run for dear life."

Says Samuel the soldier: "Shame on you, where is your bravery? The regimental images are falling. Try, perhaps they may be saved yet."

Says Samuel the Jew: "Of course, save; for a Jew must ever do more than is expected of him."

But Samuel the individual replies: "Do you remember how many lashes you have suffered on account of these very images?"

Says Samuel the Jew again: "Do you know what these images are, and to what race they belong?"

Many such thoughts flashed through my brain; but it was all in a moment. And in a moment I was at the side of the priest. He was alive; he was only wounded in his hand. I raised him to his feet, put the images into his hands, lifted them up, and supported them.

"This way, Russians!"

I do not know who shouted these words. Perhaps I did; perhaps some one else; perhaps it was from Heaven.

However, the victory was ours.

But I did not remain on my feet a long time; a bullet struck me, and I fell. . . . .

What happened then, I cannot tell. All I know is that I dreamt something very agreeable: I was a little boy again, hanging on to my father's coat-tails, and standing beside him in the Klaus on a Yom-Kippur even, during the most tearful prayers, and a mischievous little boy began to play with me, pricking my leg with a needle every now and then. . . .

When I came to my senses, I found myself in a sea of howls, groans, and cries, which seemed to be issuing from the very depths of the earth. For a moment I thought I was in purgatory, among the sinners who undergo punishment. But pretty soon I recognized everything. I turned my head, and saw Zagrubsky lying near me, wounded and groaning. He looked at me, and there was love and hatred mixed in that look. "Zhid," said he, with his last breath, and gave up the ghost.

Rest in peace, thou beloved enemy of mine!

From behind I heard someone groaning and moaning; but the voice sounded full and strong. I turned my head in the direction of the voice, and I saw that Serge Ivanovich was lying on his side and moaning. He looked around, stood up for a while, and lay down again. This manoeuvre he repeated several times in succession. You see, the rascal was scheming to his own advantage. He knew very well that in the end he would have to fall down and groan for good. So he thought it was much cheaper and wiser to do it of his own free will, than to wait for something to throw him down. The scamp had seen what I had done before I fell. A thought came to him. He helped me to my feet, bandaged my wound, and said:

"Now listen, Samuel: you have certainly done a very great thing; but it is worth nothing to you personally. Nay, worse: they might again try to make you renounce your faith. So it is really a danger to you. But, if you wish, just say that I have done it, and I shall repay you handsomely for it. The priest will not know the difference."

Well, it is this way: I always hated get-rich-quick schemes. I never cared a rap for a penny I had not expected and was not ready to earn. Take, for instance, what I did with the priest: Did I ever expect any honors or profits out of it? Such possible honors and profits I certainly did not like, and did not look for. Besides, who could assure me that they would not try again to coax me into renouncing my faith? Why, then, should I put myself into such trouble? And I said to Serge:

"You want it badly, Serge, do you? You'd like to see yourself promoted, to be an officer? Is that so? Very well, then. Make out a paper assigning the house to Marusya."

"I promise faithfully."

"I believe no promises."

"What shall I do?"

"You have paper and pencil in your pocket?"

"Certainly!"

I turned around, supported myself on both my arms and one knee, and made a sort of a rickety table of myself. And on my back Serge wrote out his paper, and signed it. But all that was really unnecessary. He would have kept his word anyway. For he was always afraid I might blurt out the whole story. Not I, though. May I never have anything in common with those who profit by falsehoods!

As to what happened later, I cannot tell you exactly. For I was taken away, first to a temporary hospital, and then to a permanent one. I fell into a fever and lost consciousness. I do not know how many days or weeks passed by: I was in a different world all that time. How can I describe it to you? Well, it was a world of chaos. It was all jumbled together: father, mother, military service, ikons, lashes, lambs slaughtered, Peter, bullets, etc., etc.

It was all in a jumble, all topsyturvy. And in the midst of that chaos I felt as if I were a thing apart from myself. My head ached, and yet it felt as if it did not belong to me. . . . Finally I thought I felt mother bathing me; a delicious feeling of moisture spread over my flesh, and my headache disappeared. Then I felt a warm, soft hand pass over my forehead, cheeks, and neck. . . .

I opened my eyes, the first time since I lost consciousness, and I exclaimed:

"Marusya!?"

"Yes, yes," said she, with a smile, while her eyes brimmed with tears, "it is I." And behind her was another face:

"Anna?!"

"Rest, rest," said they, warningly. "Thanks to God, the crisis is over."

I doubted, I thought it was all a dream. But it was no dream. It was all very simple: Anna and Marusya had enlisted and were serving as volunteer nurses at the military hospital, and I had known nothing of it.

"Marusya," said I, "please tell me how do I happen to be here?"

Then she began to tell me how they brought me there, and took me down from the wagon as insensible as a log. But she could not finish her story; she began to choke with tears, and Anna finished what Marusya wanted to tell me.

I turned to Marusya:

"Where are my clothes?"

"What do you want them for?"

"There is a paper there."

I insisted, and she brought the paper.

"Read the paper, Marusya," said I. She read the document in which Serge assigned the house to Marusya. The two women looked at me with glad surprise.

"How did you ever get it?"

But I had decided to keep the thing a secret from them, and I did.

When I was discharged from the hospital, the war was long over, and a treaty of peace had been signed. Had they asked me, I should not have signed it.--

XIII

Here the old man stopped for a while. Apparently he skipped many an incident, and omitted many a thing that he did not care to mention. I saw he was touching upon them mentally. Her resumed:--

Just so, just so. . . . Many, many a thing may take place within us, without our ever knowing it. I never suspected that I had been longing to see my parents. I never wrote to them, simply because I had never learned to write my Jewish well enough. Of course, had my brother Solomon been taken, he would surely have written regularly, for he was a great penman, may he rest in peace. As to Russian, I certainly might have written in that language; but then it would have been very much like offering salt water to a thirsty person. And that is why I did not write. I thought I had forgotten my parents. But no! Even that was merely a matter of habit. I had gotten so used to my feeling of longing that I was not aware of having it. That is the way I explain it to myself. By and by there opened in my heart a dark little corner that had been closed for many a year. That was the longing for my parents, for my home, mixed with just a trace of anger and resentment. I began to picture to myself how my folks would meet me: there would be kisses, embraces, tears, neighbors. . . . For, like a silly child, I imagined they were all alive and well yet, and that the Angel of Death would wait till I came and repaid them for all the worry I had caused them. . . . And, indeed, would they not have been greatly wronged, had they been allowed to die unconsoled, after they had rent Heaven with their prayers and lamentations?

But the nearer I came to my native town, the less grew my desire to see it. A feeling of estrangement crept over me at the sight of the neighborhood. No, it was not exactly a feeling of estrangement, but some other feeling, something akin to what we feel at the recollection of the pain caused by long-forgotten troubles. I can hardly make it clear to you; it was not unlike what an old man feels after a bad dream of the days of his youth.

It was about this time of the year. The roads were just as bad as now, the slush just as deep. And it was as nauseating to sit in the coach only to watch the glittering mud and count the slow steps of the horses. In a season like this it is certainly much more agreeable to dismount and walk. That was just what I did. My native town was not far away: only once uphill, once downhill, and there was the inevitable cemetery, which must be passed when one enters a Jewish village. The horses could hardly move, and I overtook them very soon, as I took a short cut, and struck into a path across the peasants' fields. I allowed myself that privilege, because at that time I was still wearing my uniform with the brass buttons shining brightly. When I descended into the valley, I decided to cross the cemetery, and so shorten my way. The coach was far behind, and I was walking very slowly, that it might reach me at the other side of the cemetery. My path lay among the gravestones, some of them gray with age, dilapidated, bent forward, as if trying to overhear the talk of the nether world: some clean and upright, as if gazing proudly heavenwards. It was a world of silence I was in; and heavy indeed is the silence I was in; it is really a speaking silence. I think there is something real in the belief that the dead talk in their graves. To me it seemed as if the gravestones were casting evil glances at me for my having disturbed the silent place with the glitter of my buttons. And it was with difficulty that I could decipher the inscriptions on the stones. I do not know why it was so: either my Hebrew had got rusty, or else graveyard inscriptions make hard reading in general.

"Here lieth . . . . the righteous man . . . . modest, pious . . . . Rabbi Simhah . . . . Shohet. . . ."

I read it all, and shuddered: why, under that very stone lay the remains of my own brother Simhah!

I wanted to shed tears, but my tears did not obey me. I read it again and again, and when I came to the words "modest," "pious," I mumbled something to myself, something angry and envious. Then I thought I felt the tombstone move, the ground shake under me, as if a shiver were passing through the air. . .

"Forgive me, forgive me!"

It was not my ears that caught those words; it was my heart. I understood that it was the soul of my brother apologizing to me for the action of my parents. Tears began to flow from my eyes. I did not care to read any further, from fear of finding something I did not wish to find. I was thinking of my parents.

And when I entered the house of my parents, I could hardly recognize them. Wrinkled, bent, with sunken cheeks, they had changed entirely in appearance.

Father looked at my buttons, removed his cap, and stood bent before me. Mother was busying herself at the oven, and began to speak to father in a mixture of Hebrew and Yiddish: "Sure enough, some sort of taxes again. . . . Much do we need it now. . . ." Then, in a fit of spitefulness, I made believe I was a stranger.

"Old people," said I, "I have brought you news from your son Samuel." As soon as father heard me speak Yiddish, he ran to the window, rubbed his hands against the moist pane, by way of washing them, and shook hands with me.

"Peace be with you, young man," said he. Mother left her corner and stood up before me. Father began fumbling for his glasses, and asked me: "News from my son, you say? Where did you see him last?"

"And when did you see him?" asked mother, shivering.

I mentioned some imaginary place and date.

"How does he feel? Was he in the war? Is he well? Does he expect to come home?"

Many such questions followed one another in quick succession. Meanwhile father took me aside, and whispered into my ear: "How about . . . . how about religion?" Out of sheer spitefulness I wanted to worry the poor old folks a little; may the Lord not consider it a sin on my part.

I said: "Had Rabbi Simhah the Shohet been in his place, he surely would have withstood all temptations!" . . . .

"What, converted?!"

I kept silent, and the old people took it as a sign of affirmation.

They hung their heads despondently, and kept silent, too. Then father asked me once more:

"Married a Gentile? Has children?" I still kept silent. My old mother wept silently. My heart melted within me, but I braced myself up and kept silent. I felt as if a lump in my throat was choking me, but I swallowed it. I heard mother talking to herself: "O Master of the Universe, Father who art in Heaven, Thou Merciful and Righteous!" . . . . As she said it, she shook her head, as if accepting God's verdict and complaining at the same time.

The old man stood up, his beard a-quiver. His hand shook nervously, and he said in a tone of dry, cold despair:

"Ett. . . . Blessed be the righteous Judge!" as though I had told him the news of his son's death. With that he took out a pocket knife, and wanted to make the "mourning cut." At that moment my ear caught the sound of the heartrending singsong of the Psalms. The voice was old and tremulous. It was an old man, evidently a lodger, who was reading his Psalter in an adjoining room:

"For the Lord knoweth the path of the righteous. . . ."

The memories of the long past overtook me, and I told my parents who I was. . . . .

And yet--continued Samuel after some thought--and yet they were not at peace, fearing I had deceived them. And they never rested till they got me married to my Rebekah, "according to the laws of Moses and Israel."

Well, two years passed after my wedding, and troubles began; I got a toothache, may you be spared the pain! That is the way of the Jew: no sooner does he wed a woman and beget children, than all kinds of ills come upon him.

Some one told me, there was a nurse at the city hospital who knew how to treat aching teeth and all kinds of ills better than a full-fledged doctor.

I went to the hospital, and asked for the nurse.

A young woman came out. . . .

"Marusya?!"

"Samuel?!"

We were both taken aback.

"And where is your husband, Marusya?" asked I, after I had caught my breath.

"And you, Samuel, are you married?"

"Yes."

"But I am single yet."

Yes, yes, she was a good soul! She died long ago. . . . May it please the Lord to give her a goodly portion in Paradise!--

Here the old man broke off his story with a deep sigh escaping from his breast.

We waved his hand at the son, who was dozing away unconcerned, lurching from side to side. The old man looked at his son, shook his head, and said:

"Yes, yes, those were times, those were soldiers. . . . It is all different now: new times, new people, new soldiers. . . .

"It is all make-believe nowadays! . . . ."

NOTES BY THE TRANSLATOR

Av. The month in the Jewish calendar corresponding to July-August. On the ninth day of Av the Temple was taken and destroyed by Titus.

Arba-Kanfos. Literally "four corners." A rectangular piece of cloth about one foot wide and three feet long, with an aperture in the middle large enough to pass it over the head. The front part of the garment falls over the chest, the other part covers the shoulders. To its four corners "Tzitzis," or fringes, are attached in prescribed manner. When made of wool, the Arba-Kanfos is usually called TALLIS-KOTON (which see).

Bar-Mitzwah. Literally "man of duty." A Jewish boy who has passed his thirteenth birthday, and has thus attained his religious majority.

Beadle. The functions of this officer in a Jewish community were somewhat similar to those of the constable in some American villages.

Candles. The Sabbath is ushered in by lighting the Sabbath candles, accompanied by a short prayer.

Cantonists. A term applied to Jewish boys drafted into military service during the reign of Nicholas I of Russia (1825-1855). Every Jewish community had to supply its quota; but as parents did not surrender their children willingly, they were secured by kidnappers specially appointed by the Community for the purpose. See CATCHER. The same term was applied to the children of Russian soldiers who were educated for the army in the so-called District, or Canton, Schools. Hence the name.

Catcher. An agent of the Jewish community prior to the introduction, in 1874, of general military duty in Russia.

Havdolah. Ceremonial with wine, candles, and spices, accompanied by a prayer, at the end of the Sabbath.

Haggodah. The ritual used at the Passover eve home service.

Hallah. In commemoration of the priest's tithe at the time of the Temple. The ceremonial consists of taking a piece of the bread dough before it is baked and throwing it into the fire; a prayer is recited at the same time.

Heder. Literally, "a room." Specifically, a school in which Bible and Talmud are taught.

Kaddish. Literally, "sanctification." A prayer recited in commemoration of the dead.

Karaites. Members of a Jewish sect that does not recognize the authority of the Talmud.

Kosher. Literally, "right," "fit." Specifically applied to food prepared in accordance with the Jewish dietary laws.

Klaus. A synagogue to which students of the Talmud resort for study and discussion.

Lamdan. A scholar learned in the Torah.

Mezuzah. Literally, "door-post." A piece of parchment, inscribed with the SHEMA (which see), together with Deut. 11:13-21, rolled up, and enclosed in an oblong box, which is attached in a prescribed way to the door-post of a dwelling.

Modeh-Ani. Literally "I affirm." The opening words of a brief confession of faith.