They were not real men, although Regimental Sergeant-Major Bachmatiuk had been pounding the Hungarian ground with them, hurling them into the stubble and the potato fields, soaking them in swamps and bemiring them in mud. For the rainy season had already begun, although the war was not over despite the universal expectation that it would end with the first rainstorms. Throughout the dry month of September, the comrades had inhaled Hungarian dust mingled with their own sweat; their hands were scarred by long hours of exercises by day and by night, their feet were sore from forced marches with full kit, their bodies were covered in bruises from falling and getting up again, falling and getting up again, from the digging of deep trenches, from lugging boxes of ammunition, from firing in erect, prostrate and kneeling positions, from crawling on their bellies with dozens of kilograms on their backs.
But they were not real men.
For is a creature like reserve militiaman Piotr Niewiadomski a real man if, at the most important moments in his life, such as when taking part in battalion drill or when on guard duty, he forgets which is his left hand and which is his right? Is anybody a real man who does not know what “line of fire” means? Anyone who does not know that according to the sacred firing instructions for the Imperial and Royal infantry it is an imaginary line extending from the eye of the rifleman through the rear and front sights on the barrel to the target itself? And even if he knows what “line of fire” means, is he a real man if he cannot focus on moving objects in simple, level terrain like this whole Hungarian lowland? And can you call a uniformed being a real man if he does not know what to do when his Schwarzlose machine gun barrel overheats and there is no water?
No, they were not real men, though Regimental Sergeant-Major Rudolf Bachmatiuk had let out the souls of many of them. But the souls let out by Bachmatiuk’s words eventually returned to their bodies and returned to their uniforms like birds to the nest, or they were no longer the same souls as before. They had already been transformed by that great deity of the Imperial and Royal hosts—Discipline.
Anyway, you can live without a soul. You are even a better soldier. For often the soul prevents you from carrying out the orders of higher powers. You can live without a soul.
In the 2nd Battalion there was a reserve militia private called Stepan Basarab, a native of Podolia, very close to the Russian border. As a young boy, he had acted as a guide to a poor blind minstrel. He heard oh so many tales and songs that were older than the Emperor Franz Joseph. These tales knew no borders, freely crossing it in both directions, unafraid of Russian and Austrian guards alike. Stepan Basarab told his comrades in the barracks of one Orthodox man who lived without a soul. His body was in one place and his soul was somewhere else, and this Orthodox man did not even know where it was. But he really needed his soul. Because in church, over and over again, he had been promised immortality, like everyone else, whether they were Orthodox or Greek Catholic.
“Well, what does it mean to be immortal?” asked reserve militiaman Stepan Basarab, squinting. Is your nose supposed to be immortal? Are your innards supposed to be immortal? Perhaps your belly, eh? Or what’s down below it? It’s better if all that you have sinned with in your life rots in the ground, but your soul lives forever. And this Orthodox man, said Stepan Basarab, was looking everywhere for his soul into his old age. He kept looking for it but he couldn’t find it anywhere. The devil knows what became of it. It was now close by, now far away, somewhere near Kyiv, but he knew nothing about it. It was not until he was dying that his soul returned to his body, just for a moment, eins, zwei, drei, just to leave it again, according to the rules. For good now. For ever and ever, amen. Thereupon this man died.
At the garrison things were not as in Basarab’s story; at the garrison all the souls were returning to their bodies. It was only on one occasion that Regimental Sergeant-Major Bachmatiuk let out a soldier’s soul for it never to return.
That concerned Łeś Nedochodiuk’s soul. What was it like, big or small, pretty or ugly, or—well, we don’t know. For the human soul is like that line of fire; it is known to exist, but who has ever seen it?
The body is different. Even Łeś’s worst enemy could not deny that he was handsome. Łeś Nedochodiuk was tall and slim, but the gracefulness of his movements was in harmony with his strength. He walked lightly, even in heavy army-issue boots, and he swung his hips as if wafted by a gentle breeze. There was something tree-like about him, so it seemed strange that he did not rustle in the wind. The dark skin covering his entire body gave the impression of delicate bark. Cut it or saw through it, and surely resin would flow. And no flesh would be revealed, no bones, just the rings of a tree. And no stench would erupt from Łeś’s belly, but the aroma of a sawmill.
His element was the forest. He worked in the forest and he was imbued with its spirit. He had no great devotion to his herds. The beasts smelt like liquid manure. The army abused him—they cut off his shiny chestnut locks, but they did not touch his light moustache. He trimmed it himself in the English manner. His sweaty exercise uniform did not look good on him. In uniform, Łeś looked like an animal whose charm and dignity are in its nudity, whereas in any attire, not necessarily belonging to the circus, he arouses only pity and laughter. The Imperial cap also sat uneasily on his shaved head. His big blue eyes stared out from under its peak with the innocence of an animal. His long eyelashes softened the cold, wild look in his eyes. The bloodshot left eye seemed particularly severe.
Apart from his handsome appearance, Łeś had no distinguishing features. And yet he was respected by his countrymen. They respected his strength, his breeding and his family origins. He had only one claim to fame—his success with women. It was said that he had several wives simultaneously, but that was not true. There was one woman he was married to, also good-looking and of noble birth and, well, one mistress. And if there was some coquettish woman who could not resist the handsome young man from Dzembronia, she was the one to blame, not Łeś. Łeś Nedochodiuk found it hard to resist Hutsul women, and not only Hutsuls, as a spreading oak offers shade to anyone who lies down beneath it. Even the goddess of the forest would succumb to him.
He had three legitimate children. About the illegitimate ones never a word was spoken in the land of the Dzembronia and Czeremosz rivers. The father and mother still lived in their cottage, but the whole farm had long since been in the hands of Ostap’s eldest son. This Ostap had brought his beautiful wife Kajetanna from Kuty. She looked a little Jewish, but she was not a Jew—heaven forbid! She was Armenian.
Good times and bad times, peacetime and wartime passed over Łeś like a waterfall on the Czeremosz. Noisily, but without any harm to him. Łeś Nedochodiuk paid no attention to historical events. It was all the same to him who ruled the world, Austria and all the Hutsul lands. He was unconcerned about the Emperor or the enemies of the Emperor. He could read, but he did not read newspapers. Łeś was not alone in this. Many generations of Hutsuls had been buried with their eyes closed to anything that was not Hutsul. It was only extra-terrestrial matters that Łeś cared about. He believed in heaven, he believed in hell, the holy saints, angels and archangels, but also in Arch-Judas, the king of the devils, evil spirits, spirits of the night, spirits of the forest, and in the whole supernatural world of his pagan ancestors.
This man of the wood was incompatible with machinery. He was decidedly inimical to products of the metallurgical industry. Machines were not well disposed towards him either. Not just machines, but metal in general. Twice in his life he had been tricked by iron. Once, in his childhood, he was almost blinded. At Kłym Kuczirka’s forge in Żabie-Słupejka, a spark from a red-hot horseshoe flew into his eye. He had to go for treatment to a quack doctor in Kosov, who gave him herbs and ointments that helped Łeś regain his sight after a few days, though his eye was painful for a long time afterwards. It was a miracle. Perhaps St Nicholas himself, the children’s friend, helped the Kosov quack. Many years later, when Łeś was working on his own, the axe with which he was chopping wood to make a raft cut off half of the thumb on his left hand. In peacetime, a minor disability is sufficient for exemption from military service. But in wartime you can enlist with half a left thumb missing. As long as the other hand is all right.