But none of these embittered mothers gave a thought to the end of the world.
Alarm first began to spread in Pokuttya in the middle of August, when the word “evacuation” was mentioned for the first time since the outbreak of war. It drifted in from the towns, where it had been unearthed, exhumed from the musty cellars of oblivion along with expressions like “victory”, “calamity”, “captivity”, “prisoners”, “attack”, “heroic death”. These obsolete expressions, consigned to obscurity like sleeping bats, acquired rosy cheeks and became colourful on contact with fresh air, gaining a new lease of life on everybody’s lips.
Although the word “victory” was predominant and although the Emperor was continually gaining victories in Serbia, Galicia and in the Kingdom of Poland, in the district of Śniatyn the canker of doubt had embedded itself in the residents’ hearts. Rumours from Lwów had it that the Muscovites were coming. At first they circulated secretly, whispered fearfully in inns and at drinking fountains, until on one warm starlit night the filthy little windowpanes of the Hutsul huts began reverberating. By then, everyone in Topory was openly saying that the Muscovites were coming. The bearded, shaggy muzhik with his long spear and nagaika—the Cossack lead-weighted whip. Holding between his teeth—strong as a horse’s—a sharp knife. He rides his swift little steed, trampling under its hooves all that lies in his path. The stench of tar and vodka is smelt a mile off. He smashes windows with his rifle butt, robs the Jewish shops and inns, and when he is especially enraged he even burns down entire villages. He slashes the Jews’ eiderdowns, cuts off Jews’ beards and gives Jewish women big bellies. So it is a good idea to hang an image of the Virgin Mary over your doorway, or chalk up a cross. Although—they say—when the Muscovites are at their most vicious, Christians are not spared either. It is only the “Muscovite sympathizer elements” that are spared, those who assist them by placing logs on the track to derail trains taking Austro-Hungarian troops to the front line, or in some other way. At the invitation of the Muscovites these “elements” surface like greasy spots enticed out of the cloth by an iron and a sheet of blotting paper. They emerge suddenly from under the earth, and it turns out that they have been living among us for years, but no one in the village knew about them, not even the village headman, the parish clerk, the gendarme, or even the priest. If the priest is not one of them, that is. As recently as last Sunday, they hanged two Ruthenian priests and a deacon in Sokal for signalling to the Muscovites from the bell-tower. And in Tarnopol district they hanged five peasants for no reason at all. According to reports doing the rounds of the Hutsul inns it went like this: no sooner had the Hungarians fled from the village, leaving behind everything except their horses, than the Cossacks appeared. They came across a group of daring peasants who had not hidden in their huts like the others, but had gone to see what they could retrieve from the abandoned wagons—bread, preserves, rum, tobacco. At first, the Cossacks ordered that it should all be handed over and loaded onto their wagons. Then they took them among their horses and questioned them about this and that. So the men took fright and told all they knew. That there were this many Hungarians, not more than two squadrons, and that they had all fled—about half an hour ago. (They lied and lied and lied, for patriotic reasons, because there had been about five Hungarian squadrons.)
“Will you show us which way the Hungarians fled?” asked the Cossack esaul. How could you not show him when he had a pistol and a sabre and a nagaika and all his men were armed to the teeth? Well, the men showed him, didn’t they? Meanwhile, other people had emerged from their huts, keeping their distance and watching how certain men were guiding the Cossacks. That same day two Russian infantry regiments entered the village. The officers went straight to the manor house, of course, and made merry with the squire until the early hours. They played the piano extremely well. The other ranks remained in the village. They ate and drank, danced the trepak and slept with the wenches. At dawn they marched on, but didn’t get very far because the Hungarians ambushed them in the woods, causing some casualties and taking prisoners, and the rest took to their heels—goodness knows which way they went. The Hungarians returned to the village. They immediately found out which of the peasants had assisted the Muscovites, and summarily hanged five of them from the chestnut trees, right by the Orthodox church. Three others were tied up with ropes and taken to Lwów prison. There, in accordance with martial law, they would face criminal charges under paragraph 327 of the military code.
On 18th August, the birthday of His Majesty the Emperor, His Excellency the Governor of Galicia Korytowski arrived in Vienna. During a special audience, he placed at the foot of the throne evidence of the love, loyalty and attachment felt by the whole population of the crown lands. So much evidence had accumulated that it formed a great mountain at the foot of the throne and His Majesty experienced considerable difficulty in making his way to his study.
Piotr Niewiadomski was still carrying out his duties as a signalman at box 86. Appalling reports of traitors, spies and hanged Polish priests got through even to him. He contemplated what one ought to do if the enemy demanded assistance. If you didn’t give it to them they would shoot you like a dog. (Here he glanced fearfully and tenderly at Bass. The dog was lying on the floor, licking his paw.) If you lied they would also shoot you, when they found out that you had tricked them. And if out of fear you did as they asked, your days were numbered; your own soldiers would hang you as soon as they returned. Someone would always give you away. There are so many enemies.
Piotr began counting his enemies. He did not have many, but there were always enough of them for an informer to materialize. Such a person was Fedko Semeniuk, for example. He had hated Piotr for years because of a bout of fisticuffs that had broken out over a game of cards. He would be sure to inform. But what was an innocent man to do when forced to show the Muscovites which way to go? Could a Hutsul really predict tactical manoeuvres and strategic retreats? No, Hutsuls were not brainy enough for that! A Hutsul expects that if our army has deserted the village and its place has been taken by the Russians, that’s how it will stay until the end of the world, or at any rate until the war is over. Till Christmas, that is. It is best to be deaf and dumb, like that Wasyl Horoch from Czernielica. Only deaf-mutes are safe in wartime. The enemy does not ask them any questions. If it does, all it gets is “ermmmm”.
So Piotr Niewiadomski contemplated quite seriously whether he should not pretend to be a deaf-mute if the Muscovites occupied Topory.