The sweat standing out on his brow, Piotr stuffed his mattress with dry, rustling straw, the leftovers from the Hungarian harvest. He looked kindly on this Hungarian straw. It would soothe all the injustices done to him during the day, absorbing the sweat of his brow and the anxiety in his soul. Perhaps they would be living in the barracks for just a short time. Perhaps the war would really be over in a few days’ time, and not last till Christmas? Why would it not end, since Austria had already defeated Russia at Kraśnik? Piotr was weighing up the odds like a card-player. Once you win a game, collect your money and get off home! No need to tempt fate! The second time round you can lose everything! What a surprise that will be for Magda! Bass will jump for joy! Piotr reached into his pocket and felt the cold iron. It was still there; he hadn’t lost it. He had not lost the key to his house, the key to their hopes.
He stuffed away, not grudging his pallet any straw. He wanted the mattress to be nice and firm. In any case, it would settle down later.
Suddenly Bachmatiuk appeared. Piotr had already got used to his appearance. The terror of the barracks had so far not made any great impression on him. A burly character, clearly, and morose, but then not so strict. He ignored the civilians. Actually, Bachmatiuk found them somehow repellent. He was ill at ease in their presence. He did not look at them. Could it be that civilian dress intimidated him so much? He would chat only to people in uniform.
“What am I known for?”
Corporal Reszytyło, in charge of a group of recruits, kept silent.
“I said, what am I known for?”
“It is known that you are not to be taken lightly, Regimental Sergeant-Major, sir.”
“Why did you permit smoking near the straw, Reszytyło, against my orders?”
“I did not see it, Regimental Sergeant-Major, sir.”
“What are your eyes for, Corporal?”
Without waiting for an answer, he disappeared. Corporal Reszytyło flew into a rage, insulting the mothers of the recruits and stubbornly repeating his question—who was smoking? He got no response. The silence among the crowd of strangers infuriated him still more. The crowd had the advantage over him. Again he insulted their mothers. It was no use. Breathing heavily, silent as the grave, they packed the straw into the mattresses in the ever more intense heat.
“You’ll pay for this! You’ll pay for every day I’m detained in the stinking cells because of you sodding recruits. You can be sure of that!”
The “sodding recruits”, covered in sweat and caked with dirt and straw, were afraid. As though it was a form of defence against the repayment Corporal Reszytyło had promised them, they hid behind the huge pallets. They lifted them onto their freshly shaved heads and onto their backs and scurried, cowering, into the huts. Piotr Niewiadomski was beginning to understand the threat posed by Bachmatiuk. He did not personally shout or swear himself, or do anyone any harm. But he aroused anger in his subordinates.
So the Hutsuls assigned to barracks hut no. 4, along with a few Styrians, recognized in Acting Corporal Ivan Reszytyło their first enemy in this war.
Before he can wear a uniform, a man has to take a bath to purify his body, as must a bride before she receives the bridegroom. Led by Corporal Reszytyło, they proceeded to the baths, which were set up in a special hut attached to the kitchen block. Space was restricted, so they entered in groups, while the rest waited outside. Suffocating clouds of steam billowed from the open doors as from the boiler of an invisible locomotive. Wild laughter, shrieks and hoots were heard. Strange things were going on in the bath-house. From time to time all other sounds were lost among the mighty roar of the waterfall. When Piotr Niewiadomski went in, at first he could see nothing. A heavy damp mist filled the room, which was already quite dark. Only after the noise ceased, the mist dispersed and Piotr Niewiadomski saw a crowd of wet, naked bodies. They were panting and snorting and leaping about on the wet boards, slapping their backsides to shake off the water.
Piotr had never been in a bath-house before. He could only imagine bathing in a river. He had also heard that gentlemen in big houses in towns would wash in their own baths. Here there was no bath, just boards underfoot, or perhaps they were ladders. Rusty iron pipes above your head. That was all. But where was the water? Some older man in a white coat such as a doctor would wear, with a trimmed grey beard, was in charge here. Perhaps he was a doctor? Corporal Reszytyło issued the order to undress and step onto the boards. Piotr undressed, untroubled by any sense of embarrassment. His embarrassment gradually got lost in the army. Piotr was very curious about these Imperial baths. But he did not know what to do—should he lie down on the boards or sit on them?
“Come on! Get under the water! Don’t be afraid!” squawked the white-coated man in a wheezy voice. “Into the mikveh! Into the mikveh!” he laughingly taunted the Jews.
He was no doctor or even an NCO, just an unarmed category “C” private. He was distinguished from other reserve militia privates by a thin yellow stripe on his sleeves, the so-called “intelligence stripe” or “toilet badge”, guaranteeing exemption from certain tasks such as cleaning the toilets. This Imperial and Royal badge was given to older reserve militia men without a secondary school certificate, but who followed a civilian profession requiring “intelligence”. This distinction was accorded especially to owners of larger enterprises, industrialists, merchants and landowners. The man in the white coat was called Izydor Parawan. He fulfilled light duties in the barracks and he enjoyed considerable privileges. He was the owner of one of the most popular venues in Stanisławów. Many officers of the regiment were among its regular customers. His “light” duties, in addition to those of bath attendant, involved assisting in the sick-bay during the weekly sanitary inspections known as “dick parades”.
“Move along! Move along! Don’t be shy of the water!” he shouted to the peasants and Jews, finding their hesitation amusing.
“Now, young ladies! Susannas in the bath! No one is peeping at you, you don’t have to hide your charms! Fine flesh, fine flesh, healthy cannon-fodder! All steaks for the Russian artillery! I’ll prepare you a Diana’s bath in no time.”
And he vanished behind a wooden partition like an executioner preparing the electric chair. Piotr found him extremely disconcerting. He felt sure he was the devil in a white coat. That grey beard, his incomprehensible yelling, his horrible laugh… hopefully he wouldn’t drown them!
Suddenly, warm rain gushed from the wooden ceiling. Streaming from imperceptible holes in the pipes, thin but sharp jets of water sprayed heads and bodies like so many whips. The men cringed in terror beneath the sluices. Some even lay on the boards, convinced that the water from the pipes would fill the whole room and that they would be swimming in it. Their fear soon gave way to laughter. The bath was not at all bad; it was very pleasant. But suddenly the water changed. From warm it turned to cold. Brr… Only the devil could cast a spell on the water like that in the blink of an eye. And the devil in the white coat emerged from his hiding place, laughing, laughing away through his jagged teeth, rubbing his hands and shrieking loudly, trying to make himself heard above the noise: