“I have an invitation for you, Niewiadomski.”
“Call-up papers?”
“No, tickets for a dance!”
Irony was something unusual in this part of the world, so at first Piotr did not take in the sarcasm of the gendarme’s words. For a moment, Piotr imagined snatches of a kołomyjka, a Ukrainian folk-dance tune played on a piano accordion and a fiddle, with heavy, gaudily coloured skirts swaying before his eyes. He could almost feel the gorgeous warmth of those skirts on his cheeks. The gendarme quickly brought him down to earth, drawing from the bag in which he kept those handcuffs a small folded sheet of paper sealed with the Imperial eagle.
Gutenberg, Johannes Gutenberg, was the name of that man the devil had intoxicated with Rhine wine in Mainz in 1450, ordering him to invent a new torture for the illiterate and the slow-witted. Possessed by the devil, Gutenberg founded the first printing press, together with a certain Faust. Since that time the devilish seed had spread like a plague of cholera across the entire globe, disturbing, bewitching and poisoning by night and day greedy souls in thrall to their pride in knowledge. But although so many reams of white paper had been smudged by the devil’s black characters that the entire globe could be wrapped up in it, in the year 1914 there were nevertheless many honest people in this world, especially in the Śniatyn province, who had not succumbed to the temptation. They were not even intimidated by the law introducing compulsory school attendance or by fines and imprisonment, preferring to pay the fines and suffer imprisonment rather than defile their descendants’ souls with the Latin alphabet or the Cyrillic script. It is true, of course, that in this victorious struggle they had a silent but powerful ally, the budget of the Imperial and Royal Ministry of Religious Affairs and Education. In this way the government itself indirectly fought the devil, who inhabits all written words, even the Holy Scriptures. For this reason no God-fearing person would sign documents, recording only three crosses. These three holy signs drive out the devil from all contracts, receipts and promissory notes.
But the devil is vengeful. On all pathways of human life, including main roads as well as crossroads, he has placed signs and warnings, like scarecrows:
“No spitting here, no smoking there. Ignorance of the law is no grounds for exemption from punishment.”
“It is forbidden to drink this water!” declares the devil on the large water-butt at Topory-Czernielica station. “Beware of the trains!”
Strzeż się pociągu!
Sterehty sia pojizdu!
Achtung auf den Zug!
Sama la trenu!
shrieks the devil in Polish, Ukrainian, German and Romanian on a pillar close to signal box no. 86, making out that he is a concerned friend looking after people’s safety, as though human life, rather than death, were dear to him. But death is present everywhere, absolutely everywhere, and it must to be guarded against. Not only in wartime. Railway tracks spell death wherever they are found, and death can catch you unawares at any time. It lurks in the fresh air and the sunshine and suddenly falls on the heads of haymakers like a bolt from the blue. Death is in the water. Numerous bodies of the drowned are retrieved from the Prut and the Czeremosz in summer. Death lurks even in mushrooms and it finds its way into stomachs together with plums, bearing bloody dysentery along with their sweetness. The devil, that false friend, mocks human death. He speaks to the deaf and gestures to the blind.
Of course, sometimes there are ways to outwit the devil. For example, there is the level-crossing barrier. Horses, cows and Hutsuls are illiterate, but the good Lord has sent them a guardian angel, also illiterate, to save them from death on the railway track. Many a cow and many a Hutsul would have been taken by the devil, especially in these times of war, were it not for Piotr Niewiadomski.
Corporal Durek knew that Niewiadomski was illiterate. Despite that, he delivered the call-up paper to him with an expression on his face that made out that he was unaware of it. The fact that Niewiadomski would have to ask him to read it aloud flattered the corporal. To people who could read Durek merely communicated the orders of a higher authority, but in respect of the illiterate he felt not only that he was this authority’s partner, a confidant of its intentions, but also that he personified education itself. For them, it was he who determined guilt and punishment. He was the holder of the keys to the prison cells, as well as of the keys to all secrets of the written word. This was why Durek could not resist the pleasure of confirming his superiority over Niewiadomski, although he had no desire to gloat over the latter’s insignificance. Quite the opposite. Only an hour previously, he had been sympathizing in the hall of one of the nearby mansions, where he had gone to announce the requisition of hay and where he had been offered a drink of vodka, a piece of cake and cigarettes.
“Our people are still very uneducated, your Grace—at least eighty per cent of them are illiterate.”
By referring to “them”, he had wanted to give her to understand that he counted himself among the educated.
His hope was not in vain. Niewiadomski glanced helplessly at the sheet of paper and said:
“If you would, corporal…”
That was all the corporal needed. He had the satisfaction he had sought. He quickly broke the seal, looked at the date and announced sternly:
“In five days’ time, at 9 a.m. sharp outside the recruiting office in Śniatyn.”
He stressed the word “sharp” in a tone of voice that was meant to indicate that he, Durek, was fully in agreement with the senders of the call-up paper. However, Piotr wanted to know in detail what was written on the light blue paper, and he asked the gendarme to read it all aloud, from start to finish. Durek beamed. Not only that, but he also adopted an even sterner expression than usual, and his voice sounded like that of an actor announcing a death sentence. Durek placed particular emphasis on the words derived from Latin.
“Mr Piotr Niewiadomski,” he declaimed, “is to report for inspection—”
“It can’t be so bad if they address me as ‘Mr’,” Piotr thought, giving a sigh of relief. His ears gulped in every word as he struggled to digest it all. Some words were indigestible, however. They were as sharp and cruel as bayonets. “‘The individual summoned for inspection is to report in a sober condition and washed’—I’ll have to bathe in the Prut and tell Magda to wash my shirt—‘Failure to report at the time indicated will result in forcible removal to the recruiting office and punishment by arrest and fine as under paragraph 324, article 12, and paragraph 162, article 3, of the regulations pertaining to civil mobilization, 1861.’ What does all that mean? First of all they write ‘Mr’, addressing me politely, expressing confidence, but if anyone disobeys, then it’s fixed bayonets and jail.”
Piotr could already picture Corporal Durek getting the handcuffs out of his bag and holding a bayonet to Piotr’s throat. He had once witnessed Corporal Durek escorting the bandit Matviy, known as The Bull, away in chains, by train.
The gendarme finished reading, carefully folded the call-up paper and returned it to the recruit, observing the effect of his declamation. Piotr was silent and he seemed unperturbed. The gendarme was dissatisfied by this. It had completely failed to have an impact. So, to inflate the gravity of the situation and at the same time to allude to his own authority, he said:
“But do you know how we deal with deserters now? Court martial and a bullet through the head!”
“That’s how it should be!” retorted Niewiadomski.
Durek was taken aback. To conceal his consternation, he smiled, baring his gold tooth, and ostentatiously unslung his rifle. He examined the safety catch to make sure it was secured, and leant the rifle against the wall. He removed his helmet, mopped his brow with a handkerchief and sat down on the threshold. Then he took a shiny imitation-silver cigarette case out of his pocket, full of the cigarettes he had been given at the mansion. The hands which could at any moment change into the hands of justice presented it to Piotr. As Piotr took out a “lady’s” cigarette, he noticed a beguilingly revealing pink female figure in lace underwear on the enamelled lid of the cigarette case. He felt a warm sensation in his spine as he recalled that Magda was supposed to bring the milk after sunset. They smoked in silence.