Piotr also had a glimpse of the funeral. This was the moment when he was carrying the nailed-down coffin from the cottage with the help of his neighbour Biłyk. It was so heavy it might well have contained not only her body but all the worries that had plagued her throughout her life as well. (Piotr would often recall that coffin while working on the railway, as he shifted heavy loads.) The women sang devotional songs as he and Biłyk lifted the coffin over the threshold three times, setting it down three times. That was the correct ritual, honouring a farmer’s wife. At that point the vision vanished.
Now Piotr started thinking about himself—was he young or old? Such were the thoughts that haunted him whenever he thought about dying. Actually, he was not old. He could live on for twice as many years as he already had behind him. Well, he wasn’t young either, but he still felt strong and healthy, and as for women…
As always at such moments, Piotr felt a sudden wish to have a child, as if he was not a man but an ageing, infertile woman. Why couldn’t he have children? Why should he have to die without an heir? What had he done to deserve that punishment which God imposed on the entire Hutsul tribe? Paraszka, that dissolute sister of his, she could have a baby! Evidently, as if to spite his own sacraments, God sometimes blesses the iniquitous. A fine blessing that was! What can you say? After all, Paraszka’s child died! He did not even survive for ten years. No soup had come to his aid.
Piotr was very fond of that child of sin, so looked down upon in the village. Who despised him? All those who were childless, out of envy. After giving birth to the bastard Paraszka wore the shawl of a married woman, but it didn’t help her much. The shawl incited the women to greater resentment. Paraszka was right to leave the child in her mother’s care and go to town. Except that she could have found better employment than in a brothel.
Piotr was often visited by the dead little one in his dreams. He always asked for something, always wanted something. After such dreams, Piotr regretted having been so severe with the boy. He did beat him, yes, he did, even though he was very fond of him. Considerable pain is caused by memories of harm inflicted on those who are no longer alive. Especially children… If Piotr had known that Paraszka’s child would not survive, he would never have raised his hand against him. But then how could anyone know?
He was immediately reminded of the bastard’s funeral. A Christian burial, but without a priest. A priest is very expensive, and the child’s soul was still without sin, so he could go to heaven free of charge. It is true that in the first weeks after the funeral, Piotr feared that bastard would walk about at night haunting the village. He was not sure whether the souls of illegitimate children, like the souls of unbaptized children, turn into wood-nymphs after death. Especially as there had been no priest. But little Wasylko was baptized in the church. Why couldn’t he remain an angel, like other Greek Catholic innocents? Piotr was also troubled by the uncertainty as to whether a bastard can be saved at all. After a long deliberation he always came to the conclusion that of course he can be saved. For death in childhood is the redemption of the mother’s sin, and the all-knowing God is not so vindictive as to deny the little innocent his rights.
“Oh dear! Why is my head so full of nothing but illnesses and burials today?”
Piotr crossed himself three times, so that the dead might return to their after-life, and leave the living in peace. He was a little embarrassed about doing this in the presence of Tryhubiak, though the latter thought this was Piotr’s way of parting after the meal, following his pious custom. Piotr took out his cigarettes, those from the charitable ladies in Budapest. He offered one to his companion and lit one himself. He hoped this would unite him closely with the living.
Yet it was not the dead who were the threat here; it was the living. They were truly vampires from hell, sent to drink human blood in broad daylight. Tryhubiak spoke about his superiors. They either had hearts of gold or they were sons of bitches. Somehow, there were more dogs at that garrison than hearts of gold. Entire packs of dogs. Tryhubiak was full of names. From the sound of these names Piotr tried to work out for himself what their bearers were like. He tried to imagine what they looked like and to guess at their character. He didn’t trust Tryhubiak. He knew people and he realized that those who have had bad experiences like to scare novices. Longer-serving prisoners and veteran soldiers take pleasure in this. Some names had unpleasant associations. The name Garbacz, for example, belonging to a certain young cadet for whom Tryhubiak was full of praise, was particularly off-putting, suggesting “hump-back” in Polish. Lieutenant Zelenka, on the other hand, although Tryhubiak counted him among the worst of the dogs, Piotr found congenial. Something green, sylvan and meadow-like was associated in Polish with Lieutenant Zelenka’s name. And after all, there are good dogs, aren’t there—Bass, for example?
When Tryhubiak started talking about lost cartridges for the third time, Piotr got up and went to the well, where his comrades were washing up the borrowed dishes. He waited his turn, returned the mess kit, and headed in the direction of the happy crowd. In the shade of the first barracks shed sat Semen Baran. He was entertaining a sizeable group of military and civilians. He knew the world and he was not afraid of the army. He was doing card tricks. Suddenly the fun was over. Lance Corporal Zubiak of the First Company wanted to bet a packet of Herzegovina tobacco that the next day, or at the latest the day after, the Tyrolean or Italian or even Bosnian reserve militia men would turn up, and the devil alone knew who else. The Emperor had enough nations under him. He wanted to bet that half of our men at most would be staying on at the garrison. Zubiak, as an NCO, had occasion to visit the orderly room and he had heard the sergeants discussing it. Now they were supposed to mix together men from all lands of the crown, to prevent treason.
At the ominous sound of that word, they all drew closer, tightening the circle, as if they wanted to keep treason at bay with their bodies.
On the Russian front, said Zubiak, treason was being committed. Our men were deserting to the Muscovites with their rifles, machine guns, their banners and their bands… even entire companies and entire battalions… And now they are packing each company with Germans, Italians and Czechs—there will be no more desertions. The nations will all be watching each other.
The sons of the Hutsul land took this news badly. They had expected to go to war as a family, with their own people, but now the Emperor wanted to take revenge on them for the guilt of others; he wanted to disperse them among foreign regiments and mix the languages, as God once did when he built the Tower of Babel.
“None of us has ever committed treason or ever will!” exclaimed Piotr Niewiadomski.
But now all the men were wondering where they would be sent on to, since only part of the draft was to remain in Andrásfalva.
Treason! Treason! The entire garrison reeked of it. Had Piotr defeated the phantom of treason back at home only to have it follow him all the way here with the army, to Hungary? He even wanted to pretend he was deaf and dumb… He never expected that treason could wear an army uniform.
This uniform, he thought—implying the oath sworn before God—was adequate protection from treason. Well, but if entire battalions are going over to the Muscovites with their banners and bands there is no place left to hide. Except in death. It’s all the work of the devil, who stole the fifth commandment from the Lord. The devil tells them to play the wrong marching music, changing the musicians’ scores so that the brass trumpets play only Russian tunes instead of Austrian ones.