“It’s the end of the world!” cried the Hutsuls in Topory and Czernielica. From both the Old and the New Testaments, familiar to them from the sermons of Father Makarucha, swarmed the frightful images of annihilation that beset the Hutsuls’ imagination, cultivated over so many years by this one book alone, which they could not even read. In their terror-stricken souls, the little village of Topory had become the biblical city of Sodom and Czernielica was Gomorrah, and for many the valley of the Prut, with its fragrant mint on summer evenings, was now the Valley of Jehoshaphat. Everyone recalled the darknesses in Egypt mentioned in the Scriptures, remembering that when the Saviour was crucified on Golgotha the sun faded and night fell in broad daylight, just as today. And in Śniatyn district there was wailing and gnashing of teeth.
People whose consciences were not entirely clear fell on their knees, prostrated themselves before the holy icons, beating their breasts with their fists as though, this way, they could expel their lingering, unconfessed sins or those deliberately withheld at confession. Some wanted to immediately hand over everything they had once stolen, even adding some of their own possessions.
There were villains in Topory; yes, there were—thieves and adulterers. There was even a murderer. Sentenced to fifteen years, he spent only seven in Brygidki prison in Lwów; the merciful Emperor pardoned him for the remaining term when the war broke out.
For many people it now became clear why five innocent children and two pious old women had died in the village this summer. God had rewarded these righteous individuals with death so that they would not witness the end of the world. This darkness also explained the death of the Holy Father. All the prophecies about the end of the world mentioned the death of the Pope. This is how God’s punishment begins. Everything is as predicted—a dreadful war raging all over the world, Christian blood being shed everywhere, the Muscovites already approaching the district of Śniatyn itself… and now the day of judgement has arrived. The Pope of Rome has passed away and the Lord has drawn a veil of darkness over the earth. Now the devil, the prince of darkness, has a free hand and he can do with the world as he pleases. At any moment now, plagues will rain down from the sky and the Antichrist will appear in his chariot of fire.
The rumble of the artillery barrage was heard even more distinctly in the darkness, swamping faint-hearted souls with black, arid waves. Mountains seemed to crack and crumble, and the pulse of the earth beat a hundred times faster. At any moment it would open up and consume that entire sinful tribe—as it had once swallowed up Korah.
The more timid could already detect sulphur in the air, and the smell of burning, and in the long-drawn-out bellowing of their own cattle they heard the apocalyptic beasts. However, a brave few wanted to run to Father Makarucha to ask if this really meant the end of the world. Others advised them to wait; perhaps the darkness would pass. But the darkness persisted and became ever more dense. The infernal ordeal of waiting for the worst began. The Hutsuls’ overworked imagination ceased to function; their souls were filled with the despair of the condemned. In the general panic, no one looked at the clock. Time was moving on in the darkness just as steadily as when it was light.
At an open window on the upper floor at Topory-Czernielica station, below which the petunias, geraniums and nasturtiums were wilting, stood Tadzio, the stationmaster’s son. Through the smoke-blackened glass he was observing the total eclipse of the sun. His father had told him that something similar had occurred in ancient times, in 202 BC, during the Battle of Zama. On that occasion Hannibal had uttered those famous words: “Then we will fight in the darkness.”
Now too there was fighting in the darkness. They were fighting at Turynka, some twenty-one kilometres west of Kamionka Strumiłowa, and the First German Army was just entering Brussels. And in Rome, in the brightly lit Chapel of the Blessed Sacrament, the remains of Pius X, sprinkled by the Vice-Regent Patriarch Ceppetelli, were at that moment being placed on the catafalque for the lying-in-state.
Piotr Niewiadomski was the sort of person for whom the most diverse phenomena stem from a single cause and are self-evidently linked to him personally. In his mind, all events were coordinated, merging into a single entity, or rather into a single chaotic mass which this mind was accustomed to organize according to its own logic. Therefore Piotr, like other Hutsuls, saw the solar eclipse as closely associated not only with the war and the death of the Pope, but also with his own sins. Original sin was the most prominent, overshadowing all the other, lesser, sins. And for the second time since his recruitment in Śniatyn Piotr bitterly regretted not having married Magda. He had emerged from the darkness; the darkness was his homeland, but at the moment he was mortally afraid of it, and he begged forgiveness on his knees.
The Creator graciously listened to the prayers of this poor Hutsul and for the last time, truly the last time, he forgave the sins of the world. And just as suddenly as it had fallen, the darkness began to retreat and gradually the world became visible again. Once more the sparrows twittered, the larks sang, the insects buzzed, and the beautiful, cheerful day returned. But the earth continued to rumble, shaking the windowpanes. Through his prayers, Piotr had gained only partial forgiveness for the world. Seeing that the darkened sun shone brightly once again and that everything was returning to its former state, he was almost sure that the artillery barrage would cease, and that shortly Corporal Jan Durek of the gendarmerie would appear with the joyful news that the war was over. So he was in no hurry to pack his trunk.
The solar eclipse had lasted almost two and a half hours, from 12.29 to 14.50. In those long hours of darkness the earth was enriched by tens of thousands of corpses. And there were people on the ground who wished that night would last forever, and bury their concerns, anguish and fear of war. They were not inhabitants of Topory. The inhabitants of Topory and Czernielica and other parishes of Śniatyn district enjoyed the return of the sun and the divine forgiveness and laughed at their own foolishness. But fear still gripped them, lurking in the depths of their souls; today, along with the last of the reserve militia cohorts, they were to travel to Hungary.
When Piotr Niewiadomski had recovered from his fright, and when no angel of peace had turned up in the form of the corporal of the gendarmerie, he set about packing. He could not eat now. The moment he opened the black wooden trunk, like a child’s coffin, he heard ever so high above him an unusual whirring and humming. He went outdoors and saw a small bird, way up in the sky. It seemed that the bird had flown out from the very core of the newborn sun—as it were, a dove released from the hands of God. The bird was gliding gently, sometimes descending, then soaring upwards once more. It grew and grew and grew in size, and the rushing noise it made grew louder and louder, sounding like a waterfall. In the end, it flew so close that you could make out its widely spread wings, adorned underneath by colourful circles. Yet the wings were quite motionless. Huge and dark, it glided over the meadows, becoming smaller; and the sound grew quieter, as though it came from a bumblebee. Finally, the strange bird, dwindling to the size of a fly, disappeared into the blue. It was the first military aircraft flying over Topory on its way to the front line.