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!”
The boys give it all they’ve got; with a loud “Hooray!” they storm the room and save their “banner.” It really is a lot of fun!
A deputation comes up to me:
“Mr. Volunteer, we’re having a disagreement among ourselves. How much does a little whip with a rabbit’s foot cost?”
… These are my last days with the detachment. My uniform is ready. The overcoat is being made now.
On Sunday, most likely, I’ll be leaving for my ironworks. My Twelfth Company is stationed not in Zlatoust, but at the Katav-Ivanovsky Ironworks—eight hours away from there, it turns out. It will be much better there than in the detachment. There is very little supervision from above. Much more free time. KATAV-IVANOVSKY IRONWORKS–KIEV JACOB TO HIS PARENTS
DECEMBER 9, 1912
I’m in Katav already. As predicted, it’s much better here. I think things are going to be fine.
Before I left, the head of the Training Detachment pestered me with questions about what I intended to do in Katav, where I would eat. I was a bit worried about that myself. Katav is in the middle of nowhere, and it’s very hard to get anything.
“Listen, Ossetsky, send the commander of the Twelfth Company my personal regards and ask him whether it would be possible for you to take meals at his place with him.”
“Of course. I’m grateful to you.”
The company commander listened to my request and promised to ask his wife. But today he told me that it would be awkward for a company commander to accept money from someone in the ranks. Therefore, he recommended that I take meals with one of the officers. Ensign Biryukov has accepted the duty to “nourish” me. Today I ate with him for the first time. I’m going there to take my evening meal now. Biryukov and his wife are sweet people; they treat me with great courtesy. I’m happy overall with the higher-ups here.
Oh, and another thing! The company commander ordered me to wear my soldier uniform. At the transfer station (where we were held up for seventeen hours, waiting on a military troop train!), I changed into my student uniform. I decided it would be better to report for duty for the first time in that attire. I was wearing civilian dress when I went to the Biryukovs’, but now I’m already wearing my soldier uniform.
It’s quite well made. A fitted waist, cinched with a belt. Red piping, double-breasted buttons, Rifle No. 152525, Personal No. 83, Second Platoon, Volunteer Private Jacob Ossetsky. Picture-perfect!
Perhaps you’re interested in where I’m writing this letter? I’m sitting in the company office. “Mr. Ensign” is reading the orders for the regiment. A twenty-inch lamp is burning on the table. The light is steady and bright. The papers I have just begun to write up are lying on the table. Lists of names in the lower ranks eligible for allowances from the Twelfth Company of the 196th Insarsky Infantry Regiment on December 1, 1912. I’m writing you on official government paper. By my own calculations, this theft could get me two years in a disciplinary battalion, but I’m too lazy to walk over to the other stack of paper. You see the problem? So write me, all of you! Relieve me of this boredom!
Write me, Papa; write me, Mama! Siblings one and all, write me! Otherwise, I might forget you.
I just found out that in the Kazan region some reserves who had already finished their term of duty were detained. I feel terribly sorry for them. They’ve already served for two extra months. Their three years of duty probably went by faster than these last two months. In the event of war, they will most likely send us to the interior, to guard the region. Although, if war breaks out between Russia and China, they’ll send us there immediately. I don’t think there will be any war, though. It won’t come to that. MOSCOW–ZLATOUST MARUSYA TO JACOB
DECEMBER 15, 1912
I’m close to despair. It’s like beating my head against a wall. I’ve sent five letters already! Two registered letters and one ordinary mail. The registered letters were sent on December 1 and 8. So you should have gotten the first one on the 5th. Dancing devils, what’s going on? Tomorrow I’ll make inquiries about the letter from the 13th.
How stupid and annoying it is—you write and write, and your words disappear into the ether. Am I going to disappear somewhere along the way, too? I have to leave soon. In two months and fifteen days. The time will fly by, and you won’t notice.