The Complete Works of Isaac Babel Reprint Edition by Isaac Babel, Nathalie Babel, Peter Constantine (47 page)

My first requisition is a notebook. Menashe, the synagogue shamas, goes with me. I have lunch at Mudrik’s, the same old story, the Jews have been plundered, their perplexity, they looked to the Soviet regime as saviors, then suddenly yells, whips, Yids. I am surrounded by a whole circle, I tell them about Wilson’s note, about the armies of labor, the Jews listen, sly and commiserating smiles, a Jew in white trousers had come to the pine forests to recuperate, wants to go home. The Jews sit on earth mounds,
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girls and old men, stillness, stifling, dusty, a peasant (Parfenty Melnik, the one who did his military service at Elizavetopol) complains that his horse has swollen up with milk, they took her foal away, sadness, the manuscripts, the manuscripts—that’s what is clouding my soul.

Colonel Gorov, elected by the people, village headman—sixty years old—a pre-reform rat of a nobleman. We talk about the army, about Brusilov, if Brusilov set off, why shouldn’t we? Gray whiskers, sputters,

a man of the past, smokes homegrown tobacco, lives in the government building, I feel sorry for the old man.

The clerk of the district government, a handsome Ukrainian. Flawless order. Has relearned everything in Polish, shows me the books, the district statistics: 18,600 people, 800 of whom are Poles, wanted to be united with Poland, a solemn petition of unification with the Polish state.

The clerk is also a pre-reform figure in velvet trousers, with Ukrainian speech, touched by the new times, a little mustache.

Kievan, its roads, streets, peasants, and Communism are far from one another.

Hops-growing, many nurseries, rectangular green walls, sophisticated cultivation.

The colonel has blue eyes, the clerk a silken mustache.

Night, headquarters work at Belyov. What kind of man is Zholnarkevich? A Pole? His feelings? The touching friendship of two brothers.
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Konstantin and Mikhail. Zholnarkevich is an old hand, exact, hardworking without overexerting himself, energetic without kicking up a fuss, Polish mustache, slim Polish legs. The headquarters staff is made up of Zholnarkevich and three other clerks toiling away till nightfall.

A colossal job, the positioning of the brigades, no provisions, the main thing: the operational itineraries are handled unobtrusively. The orderlies at the headquarters sleep on the ground. Thin candles burn, the divisional chief of staff in his hat wipes his forehead and dictates, ceaselessly dictates operational reports, orders to the artillery division, we are continuing our advance on Lutsk.

Night, I sleep on the hay next to Lepin,^ a Latvian, horses that have broken from their tethers roam about, snatch away the hay from under my head.

July 12, 1920. Belyov

This morning I began my journal of military operations, analyzing the operational reports. The journal is going to be an interesting piece of work.

After lunch I go riding on the horse of Sokolov, the orderly. (He is ill with a relapse of typhus, he lies next to me on the ground in a leather jacket, thin, a man of breeding, a whip in his emaciated hand, he left the hospital, they didn’t feed him, and he was bored, he lay there sick on that terrible night of our retreat from Rovno, he had been totally soaked in water, lanky, totters, talks to the people of the house with curiosity but also imperiously, as if all muzhiks were his enemy). Shpakovo, a Czech settlement. A rich region, lots of oats and wheat, I ride through the villages: Peresopnitsa, Milostovo, Ploski, Shpakovo. There is flax, they make sunflower oil out of it, and a lot of buckwheat.

Rich villages, hot noon, dusty roads, transparent sky without clouds, my horse lazy, when I whip it it moves. My first mounted ride. In Milostovo—I take a cart from Shpakovo—Im going to get a tachanka and horses with an order from divisional headquarters.

I’m too softhearted. I look admiringly at the clean, hearty, un-Russian life of the Czechs. A good village elder, horsemen galloping in all directions, constantly new demands, forty cartloads of hay, ten pigs, the agents of the Requisitions Committee—grain, the elder is given a receipt—oats have been received, thank you. Reconnaissance commander of the Thirty-fourth Regiment.

The sturdy huts glitter in the sun, roof tiles, iron, stone, apples, the stone schoolhouse, a demi-urban type of woman, bright aprons. We go to Yuripov, the miller, the richest and best-educated man around here, a typical tall, handsome Czech with a Western European mustache. A wonderful courtyard, a dovecote—I’m touched by that—new mill machinery, former affluence, white walls, an extensive farm, a bright, spacious, single-story house and a nice room, and this Czech most probably has a good family, his father—a poor sinewy old man—all of them good people, a robust son with gold teeth, trim and broad-shouldered. A good wife, probably young, and his children.

The mill has, of course, been modernized.

The Czech has been stuffed full of receipts. They took four of his horses and gave him a note for the Rovno District Commissariat, they took a phaeton and gave him a broken tachanka in exchange, and three receipts for flour and oats.

The brigade arrives, red flags, a powerful, unified body, self-assured commanders, experienced, calm eyes of the forelocked Cossacks, dust,

silence, order, marching band, they are swallowed into their billets, the brigade commander shouts over to me: We mustn’t take anything from here, this is our territory. With worried eyes the Czech watches the dashing young brigade commander bustling about in the distance, chats politely with me, returns the broken tachanka, but it falls apart. I dont waste any energy. We go to a second, a third house. The village elder lets us know where there are things to be had. An old man actually does have a phaeton, his son keeps jabbering that it is broken, the front part is damaged—you have a bride, I think to myself, or you ride in it to church on Sundays—its hot, I feel lazy and sorry for them, the horsemen scavenging through everything, this is what freedom initially looks like. I didnt take anything, even though I could have, 111 never be a true Budyonny fighter.

I’m back, it’s evening, a Pole was caught in the rye, they hunted him down like an animal, wide fields, scarlet sun, golden fog, swaying grain, in the village they’re driving cattle home, rosy, dusty streets, surprisingly tender forms, flaming tongues, orange flames shoot from the borders of the pearly clouds, the carts raise dust.

I work at the headquarters (my horse galloped nicely), I sleep next to Lepin. He is Latvian, his snout blunt, piglety, spectacles, he seems kind. A general staff man.

Cracks sudden, dull jokes. Hey, woman, when’re you going to drop dead? And he grabs hold of her.

There’s no kerosene at the headquarters. He says: We’re striving toward enlightenment, but we have no light, I’m going to play with the village girls. Stretched out his arm, won’t let go, his snout strained, his piggy lips quiver, his glasses shake.

July 13, 1920. Belyov

My birthday. Twenty-six years old. I think of home, of my work, my life is flying past. No manuscripts. Dull misery, I will surmount it. I’m keeping my diary, it will be an interesting piece of work.

The clerks are handsome young men, the young Russians from headquarters sing arias from operettas, they are a little corrupted by the work there. Describe the orderlies, the divisional chief of staff and the others—Cherkashin, Tarasov—rag-looters, lickspittles,

fawners, gluttons, loafers, products of the past, they know who their master is.

The work at the headquarters in Belyov. A well-oiled machine, a brilliant chief of staff, routine work, a lively man. They discovered that he is a Pole, relieved him of his duties, and then reinstated him on the order of the division commander. He is loved by all, gets on well with the division commander, what does he feel? Hes not a Communist, hes a Pole, yet he is as loyal as a guard dog—try figuring that out!

About our operations.

The position of our units.

Our march on Lutsk.

The makeup of the division, the brigade commanders.

The work flow at headquarters: the directive, then the order, then the operational report, then the intelligence report, we drag the Polit-otdel along, the Revolutionary Tribunal,
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the reserve horses.

I ride over to Yasinevichi to exchange my carriage for a tachanka and horses. Unbelievable dust, heat. We ride through Peresopnitsa, delight in the fields, my twenty-seventh year, I think the rye and barley are ripe, here and there the oats look very good, the poppies are past their bloom, there are no cherries, the apples aren’t ripe, a lot of flax, buckwheat, many trampled fields, hops.

A rich land, but within bounds.

Dyakov, commander of the Reserve Cavalry: a fantastical apparition, red trousers with silver stripes, an embossed belt, a Stavropol Cossack, the body of an Apollo, a cropped gray mustache, forty-five years old, has a son and a nephew, outlandish cursing, things were sent over to him from the Supply Department, he had smashed a table to pieces there, but finally got what he wanted. Dyakov, his men love him: our commander is a hero. He was an athlete, can barely read and write, he says: Im a cavalry inspector now, a general. Dyakov is a Communist, a daring old Budyonny fighter. He met a millionaire with a lady on his arm: “I say, Mr. Dyakov, did we not meet at my club?”—“I have been in eight countries, when I come out on stage, I need only wink.”

Dancer, concertina player, trickster, liar, a most picturesque figure. Has a hard time reading documents, he keeps losing them—all this paperwork, he says, has finished me off, if I walk out, what will they do without me?—cursing, chats with the muzhiks, their mouths hang open.

The tachanka and two emaciated horses, describe the horses.

People go to Dyakov with requests, phew, I’m being worn down to the bone, distribute underwear, one thing after the other, fatherly relationship, you (to one of the patients) will end up being the head cattle driver here. I go home. Night. Headquarters work.

We have been billeted in the house of the village elder’s mother. The merry mistress of the house keeps up an endless babble, hitches up her skirts and works like a bee for her family and then seven people on top of that.

Cherkashin (Lepins orderly) is rude and tiresome, wont leave her in peace, were always asking for something or other, children are loafing about the house, we requisition hay, the hut is full of flies, some children, old people, a bride, soldiers jostle and holler. The old woman is sick. The old people drop by to visit her and are mournfully silent, the lamp.

Night, headquarters, the pompous telephone operator, K. Karlovich writes reports, orderlies, the clerks on duty are sleeping, the village pitch-black, a sleepy clerk is typing an order, K. Karlovich is precise as clockwork, the orderlies arrive silently

The march on Lutsk. The Second Brigade is leading it, they still haven’t managed to take it. Where are our advance units?

July 14, 1920. Belyov

Sokolov has been billeted with us. He is lying on the hay, lanky, Russian, in leather boots. Misha is a nice, red-cheeked fellow from Oryol. Lepin
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plays with the maid when no one is watching, he has a blunt, tense face, our landlady keeps up an endless babble, tells tales,

works tirelessly, her old mother-in-law—a shriveled-up little old woman—loves her, Cherkashin, Lepin’s orderly, eggs her on, she prattles on without stopping to catch her breath.

Lepin fell asleep at the headquarters, a completely idiotic face, he simply cant wake up. A wail over the village, the cavalrymen are trading in their horses, giving the villagers their worn-out nags, trampling the grain, taking their cattle, complaints to the chief of staff, Cherkashin is arrested for whipping a muzhik. Lepin spends three hours writing a letter to the tribunal, Cherkashin, he writes, had been influenced by the scandalously provocative behavior of the Red Officer Sokolov. My advice: dont put seven men in one hut.

Gaunt, angry Sokolov tells me: Were destroying everything, I hate the war.

Why are they all here in this war—Zholnarkevich, Sokolov? All this is subconscious, inert, unthinking. A nice system.

Frank Mosher.
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A shot-down American pilot, barefoot but elegant, neck like a column, dazzlingly white teeth, his uniform covered with oil and dirt. He asks me worriedly: Did I maybe commit a crime by fighting against Soviet Russia? Our position is strong. O the scent of Europe, coffee, civilization, strength, ancient culture, many thoughts, I watch him, cant let him go. A letter from Major Fountleroy: things in Poland are bad, theres no constitution, the Bolsheviks are strong, the socialists the center of attention but not in power. One has to learn the new methods of warfare. What are they telling Western European soldiers? Russian imperialism is out to destroy the nationalities, customs, that’s the main thing, to take over all the Slavic lands, what old and tired words these are! An endless conversation with Mosher, I sink into the past, they’ll shake you up, Mosher, ha, Mr. Conan Doyle, letters to New York. Is Mosher being sly or not—he keeps asking frantically what Bolshevism is. A sad, heart-warming impression.

I’m getting used to the headquarters, I have what they call a vehicular driver, thirty-nine-year-old Grishchuk, a prisoner in Germany for six years, fifty versts from his home (he is from the Kremenets district), the army won’t let him go, he says nothing.

Division Commander Timoshenko is at headquarters. A colorful figure. A colossus, red half-leather trousers, a red cap, slender, a former platoon commander, a machine-gunner, an artillery warrant officer in the past. Legendary tales. The commissar of the First Brigade had been frightened by the fire—Boys, on your horses!—and Timoshenko had begun lashing at all his commanders with his whip: Kniga,
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the regimental commanders, he shoots the commissar—On your horses, you sons of bitches!—goes charging after them, five shots—Comrades, help!—111 show you!—Help!—a shot through the hand, in the eye, the revolver misfires, and I bawl out the commissar. He fires up the Cossacks, a Budyonny man, when you ride with him into battle, if the Poles dont kill you, he’ll kill you.