Corporal Durek, responsible for dashing dreams in Topory-Czernielica, did not come alone. He was accompanied by some soldier of indeterminate age, encumbered from head to toe. His rifle was slung nonchalantly round his neck. He was puffing on a long-stemmed pipe. One thing about him was particularly suspicious: on the green facings of his collar, next to the bone star, shone a metal winged wheel. Very clearly, this soldier had some connection with the railway.
Today, Corporal Durek was not dressed as he had been on that evening when he brought the call-up papers. Instead of the helmet he wore an ordinary soldier’s cap, and grey-blue battledress instead of the black-and-green cloth uniform. The only indications that here was a corporal of the gendarmerie, and not an infantryman for example, were his bag and his sword. All the shiny objects, buckles and buttons, even the jubilee medal, had been removed—a sign that Topory was a rear-echelon headquarters. In place of the medal, a discrete, narrow red-and-white ribbon adorned the corporal’s chest. The Emperor’s cross was gone. “Strict incognito” is the watchword at a military staging post. The gendarme’s gold tooth glinted as before, but that was all.
“This lance corporal will be taking over your duties,” Durek announced. “As of today, the entire railway is in the hands of the army. Evacuation!”
The word “evacuation”, like all expressions of foreign origin, served to bolster the belief of the gendarmerie corporal in his personal superiority.
“Evacuation!” he repeated. He inhaled the sound like the smoke of an enjoyable cigarette. The lance corporal meanwhile removed his backpack. He made himself at home in the signal box, paying no attention to Piotr.
“Show the lance corporal what is required,” continued Durek. Mention of the soldier’s rank as an NCO was intended to emphasize Piotr’s comparative inferiority.
Piotr was aghast. Evacuation was all very well, but was he some Jew who had to flee? Where to, anyway? And what about his enlistment?
Corporal Durek had not come merely to relieve him of his post.
“Show me your papers!” he demanded, enigmatically.
Piotr fished out from his jacket pocket all the papers he possessed.
“That is not required!” declared the gendarme, contemptuously returning the certificate of baptism. But he studied the military papers closely. Piotr observed the lance corporal with apprehension.
“You’re off tomorrow!” commanded Durek, folding up the document. “You are to report to the stationmaster for your travel instructions.”
“To Stanisławów?” asked Piotr, as that was his posting.
“What do you mean, to Stanisławów? To Hungary!”
Things were becoming clearer to Piotr. The Emperor had foreseen everything, even the evacuation. The Emperor would not leave him to the Muscovites. The Emperor was now hurriedly gathering his people, like a wise farmer gathering wheat into the barn as a storm approaches. Piotr was greatly consoled. At last his heart had been relieved of the other half of the burden. The dire possibilities he had feared now ceased to exist. Now the Muscovites could enter Topory, no problem. They wouldn’t find Piotr Niewiadomski there.
Emboldened by his sense of relief, he enquired:
“Are the Muscovites far away?”
This question angered the gendarme. It was not permitted to put such questions within the confines of his jurisdiction. Assuming a stern demeanour, he did his best to look like an active soldier, only his gold tooth endowed his words with a glowing warmth:
“Don’t you dare sow hysteria! You’ll be court-martialled! There’s no cause for panic. We’re winning the war on all fronts.”
“Jo, jo!” confirmed the lance corporal ironically—he was Czech.
Durek gave him a withering glance. How tactless, to cast doubt on victory in the presence of an illiterate. Durek read military communiqués in The New Age.
“On all fronts the Russians are retreating!” he quoted from memory. “At Rozvadov we destroyed two enemy divisions. Cavalry General von Brudermann…”
He choked on the general’s name. Not only did he know the names of the generals, but he could also pronounce them correctly. The German ones, anyway. It was only the Hungarian names that gave him some difficulty. Whenever possible, he tried to avoid them. For now, there wasn’t any point in mentioning names. It wasn’t worth enlightening the dark masses. Names and family titles dripping with glamour and rustling like plumes of feathers ought to be conserved for higher purposes. To astonish one’s superiors, to create a favourable impression of oneself in quarters where it might enhance one’s service record.
Piotr had lost the plot again. What should not be sown? Hysteria? What is hysteria? Perhaps some poisonous seed or something like tobacco? Severe punishment was inflicted on those who secretly dealt in tobacco. Piotr did not sow anything or cultivate anything other than beans, cabbages and sunflowers. The sunflowers were actually for Magda. What did he mean about the Muscovites retreating, when our forces are hurriedly retreating from the front line and we are ordered to abandon Topory as quickly as possible? The devil knows where the truth lies. Perhaps it’s as the gendarme says, only Piotr can’t understand it. If he doesn’t know his left from his right, he might not know his front from his rear. The devil, the father of all relativity, is crafty! Once, when Piotr was a child, the evil one led him at dead of night across field after field for something like two hours. Piotr was lost and couldn’t find his way home, while his house was right under his nose, just a hundred paces away. The devil had hidden his cottage underground, in order to lead an innocent soul astray. Who knows, perhaps at this very moment the devil is leading the entire Imperial and Royal Army, which thinks it is advancing whereas in reality it keeps retreating?
The signal bell rang again. Piotr ran out with his little flag and for the last time in his life lowered the level-crossing barrier on the Lwów–Czerniowce–Ickany line. His railway career was over.
Chapter Five
“So nothing is to be held up? Hello! I said—is nothing to be held up?” The stationmaster at Topory-Czernielica was on the telephone to the stationmaster at Śniatyn.
“You say it starts at 12.29 and continues until 14.50? But of course. What with this evacuation, I haven’t picked up a newspaper for several days. Hello! Well, what then? Not to light up in any circumstances? No, I’m not. Such… Hello!… such things have happened before. In ancient times, during the Punic Wars, Scipio Africanus…”
Ancient history buzzed in the earpiece of the Śniatyn stationmaster’s telephone. Between Śniatyn and Topory-Czernielica stations, along the metal cables the exhausted sparrows used to rest on, Hannibal was dashing back and forth at the historic moment of the evacuation of the Topory district. Meanwhile, modern history was announcing itself by the echo of distant artillery fire, the rumbling of the earth and the rattling of windowpanes.
“Yes sir, yes sir, I’ll send a report, sir.”
He hung up and cranked the handle. A ring of the telephone bell indicated that the call was over. Hannibal had disappeared.
The Topory-Czernielica stationmaster was proud of his classical education. He remembered the Punic Wars particularly well, since it was because of these and certain other gory facts that he had been required to retake his secondary school exams. On the first occasion, to the disgust of the entire examination board, he had said that there were five Punic Wars, waged by Philip of Macedonia against Rome. When he retook the examination six months later, he knew exactly what had really happened. Only this time the examiner was not interested in his views on the Punic Wars. On receiving more or less correct answers on the topic of Julius Caesar’s campaigns, and hearing a tolerable translation of a passage from Ab urbe condita, he confirmed that the candidate had passed. The stationmaster remembered the Punic Wars till the end of his life. He admired the ancient Romans, not so much for their virtue and wisdom as for the fact that, thanks to a perfunctory acquaintance with their history and their writings, he was able to serve just one year in the Imperial and Royal Army, and to gain a commission as a reserve officer. He regarded those with no secondary school certificate as creatures of the lowest order. He never shook hands with them. He made exceptions only for women or members of his own family, in particular his father, who was a coach-builder in Rohatyn district. But he was indifferent towards his father, and there were few situations in which he was keen to appear in his company.