The Complete Works of Isaac Babel Reprint Edition by Isaac Babel, Nathalie Babel, Peter Constantine (55 page)

When we advanced close to the little town, things began to heat up, the moment of the attack, the moment when a town is taken, the feverish, frightening, mounting rattle of the machine guns driving one to hopelessness and despair, the ceaseless explosions and, high up over all of this, silence, and nothing can be seen.

The work of Apanasenko’s headquarters, every hour there are reports to the army commander, he is trying to ingratiate himself.

We arrive frozen through, tired, at Nivitsa. A warm kitchen. A school.

The captivating wife of the schoolmaster, she’s a nationalist, a sort of inner cheerfulness about her, asks all kinds of questions, makes us tea, defends her mowa* your mowa is good and so is my mowa, and always laughter in her eyes. And this in Galicia, this is nice, its been ages since I’ve heard anything like this. I sleep in the classroom, in the straw next to Vinokurov.^

I’ve got a cold.

August 14, 1920

The center of operations—the taking of Busk and the crossing of the Bug. All day long attacking Toporov, no, weve stopped. Another indecisive day. The forest clearing by St[ary] Maidan. The enemy has taken Lopatin.

Toward evening we throw them out. Once again Nivitsa. Spend the night at the house of an old woman, in the yard together with the staff.

August 15, 1920

Morning in Toporov. Fighting near Busk. Headquarters are in Busk. Force our way over the Bug. A blaze on the other side. Budyonny’s in Busk.

Spend the night in Yablonovka with Vinokurov.

August 16, 1920

To Rakobuty, a brigade made it across.

I’m off to interrogate the prisoners.

Once again in Yablonovka. We’re moving on to N[ovy] Milatin, St[ary] Milatin, panic, spend the night in an almshouse.

August 17, 1920

Fighting near the railroad tracks near Liski. The butchering of prisoners.

Spend the night in Zadvurdze.

August 18, 1920

Havent had time to write. Were moving on. We set out on August 13. From that time on we’ve been on the move, endless roads, squadron banners, Apanasenko’s horses, skirmishes, farms, corpses. Frontal attack on Toporov, Kolesnikov
⁹
in the attack, swamps, I am at an observation point, toward evening a hurricane of fire from two batteries. The Polish infantry is waiting in the trenches, our fighters go, return, horse-holders are leading the wounded, Cossacks don’t like frontal attacks, the cursed trenches cloud with smoke. That was the 13th. On the 14th, the division moves to Busk, it has to get there at all cost, by evening we had advanced ten versts. That’s where the main operation has to take place: the crossing of the Bug. At the same time they’re searching for a ford.

A Czech farm at Adamy, breakfast in the farmhouse, potatoes with milk, Sukhorukov thrives under every regime, an ass-kisser, Suslov dances to his tune, as do all the Lyovkas. The main thing: dark forests, transport carts in the forests, candles above the nurses, rumbling, the tempos of troop movement. We’re at a clearing in the forest, the horses are grazing, the airplanes are the heroes of the day, air operations are on the increase, airplane attacks, five-six planes circle endlessly, bombs at a hundred paces, I have an ash-gray gelding, a repulsive horse. In the forest. An intrigue with the nurse: Apanasenko made her a revolting proposition then and there, they say she spent the night with him, now she speaks of him with loathing. She likes Sheko,^ but the divisional military commissar likes her, cloaking his interest in her with the pretext that she is, as he says, without protection, has no means of transport, no protector. She talks of how Konstantin Karlovich** courted her, fed her, forbade others to write her letters, but everyone kept on writing to her. She found Yakovlev^ extremely attractive, and the head of the Registration Department, a blond-haired boy in a red hood asked for her hand and her heart, sobbing like a child. There was also some other story but I couldn’t find out anything about it. The saga of the nurse, and the main thing: they talk a lot about her and everyone looks down on her, her own coachman doesn’t talk to her, her little boots, aprons, she does favors, Bebel brochures.

Woman and Socialism *

One can write volumes about the women in the Red Army. The squadrons set off into battle—dust, rumbling, the baring of sabers, savage cursing—they gallop ahead with hitched-up skirts, dust-covered, fat-breasted, all of them whores, but comrades too, and whores because they are comrades, that’s the most important thing, they serve in every way they can, these heroines, and then they’re looked down upon, they give water to the horses, haul hay, mend harnesses, steal things from churches and from the townsfolk.

Apanasenko’s agitation, his foul language, is it willpower?

Night again in Nivitsa, I sleep somewhere in the straw, because I can’t remember anything, everything in me is lacerated, my body aches, a HUNDRED versts by horse.

I spend the night with Vinokurov. His attitude toward Ivanov.^ What kind of man is this gluttonous, pitiful, tall youth with a soft voice, wilted soul, and sharp mind? The military commissar is unbearably rough with him, swears at him ceaselessly, finds fault with everything: What’s up with you—curses fly—You didn’t do it? Go pack your things, I’m kicking you out!

I have to fathom the soul of the fighter, I am managing, this is all terrible, they’re animals with principles.

Overnight the Second Brigade tookToropov in a nocturnal attack. An unforgettable morning. We move at a fast trot. A terrible, uncanny shtetl, Jews stand at their doors like corpses, I wonder about them: what more are you going to have to go through? Black beards, bent backs, destroyed houses, here there’s [illegible], remnants of German efficiency and comfort, some sort of inexpressible, commonplace, and burning Jewish sadness. There’s a monastery here. Apanasenko is radiant. The Second Brigade rides past. Forelocks, jackets made out of carpets, red tobacco pouches, short carbines, commanders on majestic horses, a Budyonny brigade. Parade, marching bands, we greet you, Sons of the Revolution. Apanasenko is radiant.

We move on from Toporov—forests, roads, the staff on the road,

* Die Frau und der Sozialismus (Woman and Socialism) by August Bebel.

^ Vinokurov’s secretary.

orderlies, brigade commanders, we fly on to Busk at a fast trot, to its eastern part. What an enchanting place (on the 18th an airplane is flying, it will now drop bombs), clean Jewesses, gardens full of pears and plums, radiant noon, curtains, in the houses the remnants of the petite bourgeoisie, a clean and possibly honest simplicity, mirrors, we have been billeted at the house of a fat Galician woman, the widow of a schoolmaster, wide sofas, many plums, unbearable exhaustion from overstrained nerves (a shell came flying, didnt explode), couldn’t fall asleep, lay by the wall next to the horses remembering the dust and the horrible jostle in the transport cart, dust—the majestic phenomenon of our war.

Fighting in Busk. Its on the other side of the bridge. Our wounded. Beauty—over there the shtetl is burning. I ride to the crossing, the sharp experience of battle, have to run part of the way because its under fire, night, the blaze is shining, the horses stand by the huts, a meeting with Budyonny is under way, the members of the Revolutionary War Council* come out, a feeling of danger in the air, we didnt take Busk with our frontal attack, we say good-bye to the fat Galician woman and drive to Yablonovka deep in the night, the horses are barely moving ahead, we spend the night in a pit, on straw, the division commander has left, the military commissar and I have no strength left.

The First Brigade found a ford and crossed the Bug by Poborzhany. In the morning with Vinokurov at the crossing. So here is the Bug, a shallow little river, the staff is on a hill, the journey has worn me out, I’m sent back to Yablonovka to interrogate prisoners. Disaster. Describe what a horseman feels: exhaustion, the horse wont go on, the ride is long, no strength, the burned steppe, loneliness, no one there to help you, endless versts.

Interrogation of prisoners in Yablonovka. Men in their underwear, exhausted, there are Jews, light-blond Poles, an educated young fellow, blunt hatred toward them, the blood-drenched underwear of a wounded man, hes not given any water, a fat-faced fellow pushes his papers at me. You lucky fellows—I think—how did you get away. They crowd around me, they are happy at the sound of my benevolent voice, miser-

able dust, what a difference between the Cossacks and them, they’re spineless.

From Yablonovka I return by tachanka to the headquarters. Again the crossing, endless lines of transport carts crossing over (they don’t wait even a minute, they are right on the heels of the advancing units), they sink in the river, trace-straps tear, the dust is suffocating, Galician villages, I’m given milk, lunch in a village, the Poles have just pulled out of here, everything is calm, the village dead, stifling heat, midday silence, there’s no one in the village, it is astounding that there is such light, such absolute and unruffled silence, peace, as if the front were well over a hundred versts away. The churches in the villages.

Farther along the road is the enemy. Two naked, butchered Poles with small, slashed faces are glittering through the rye in the sun.

We return to Yablonovka, tea at Lepin’s, dirt, Cherkashin* denigrates him and wants to get rid of him. If you look closely, Cherkashin’s face is dreadful. In his body, tall as a stick, you can see the muzhik—he is a drunkard, a thief, and a cunning bastard.

Lepin is dirty, dim-witted, touchy, incomprehensible.

Handsome Bazkunov’s long, endless tale, a father, Nizhny-Novgorod, head of a chemistry department, Red Army, prisoner under Denikin, the biography of a Russian youth, his father a merchant, an inventor, dealt with Moscow restaurants. Chatted with him during the whole trip. We are heading for Milatin, plums along the road. In St[ary] Milatin there is a church, the priest’s house, the priest lives in a luxurious house, unforgettable, he keeps squeezing my hand, sets off to bury a dead Pole, sits down with us, asks whether our commander is a good man, a typical Jesuitical face, shaven, gray eyes dart around—a pleasure to behold—a crying Polish woman, his niece, begging that her heifer be returned to her, tears and a coquettish smile, all very Polish. Mustn’t forget the house, knickknacks, pleasant darkness, Jesuitical, Catholic culture, clean women, and the most aromatic and agitated Pater; opposite him a monastery. I want to stay here. We wait for the order for where we are to stay—in Stary Milatin or in Novy Milatin. Night. Panic. Some transport carts, the Poles have broken through somewhere, pandemonium on the road, three rows of transport carts,

I’m in the Milatin schoolhouse, two beautiful old maids, it’s frightening how much they remind me of the Shapiro sisters from Nikolayev, two quiet, educated Galician women, patriots, their own culture, bedroom, possibly curlers, in thundering, war-torn Milatin, outside these walls transport carts, cannons, fatherly commanders telling tales of their heroic feats, clouds of orange dust, the monastery is enveloped by them. The sisters offer me cigarettes, they breathe in my words of how everything will be marvelous—it’s like balm, they have blossomed out, and we speak elegantly about culture.

A knock at the door. The commandant wants me. A fright. We ride over to Novy Milatin. N. Milatin. With the military commissar in the almshouse, some sort of town house, sheds, night, vaults, the priests maid, dark, dirty, myriads of flies, tiredness beyond compare, the tiredness of the front.

Daybreak, we depart, the railroad has to be breached (this all takes place on August 17), the Brody-Lvov railroad.

My first battle, I saw the attack, they gather in the bushes, the brigade commanders ride up to Apanasenko—careful Kniga,
¹⁰
all
^y
sly-ness, rides up, talks up a storm, they point to the hills, there beneath the forest, there over the hollow, they’ve spotted the enemy, the regiments ride to attack, sabers in the sun, pale commanders, Apanasenko’s hard legs, hurrah.

What happened? A field, dust, the staff in the plains, Apanasenko curses in a frenzy, brigade commander—destroy those bastards, f—ing bandits.

The mood before the battle, hunger, heat, they gallop in attack, nurses.

A thunder of hurrahs, the Poles are crushed, we ride out onto the battlefield, a little Pole with polished nails is rubbing his pink, sparsely haired head, answers evasively, prevaricating, hemming and hawing, well, yes, Sheko,^ roused and pale, answer, who are you—I’m, he ducks the question, a sort of ensign, we ride off, they take him, a good-looking fellow behind him loads his gun, I shout—“Yakov Vasilevich [Sheko]!” He acts like he didn’t hear, rides on, a shot, the little Pole in

his underwear falls on his face and twitches. Life is disgusting, murderers, its unbearable, baseness and crime.

They are rounding up the prisoners, undressing them, a strange picture—they undress incredibly fast, shake their heads, all this in the sun, mild embarrassment, all the command personnel is there, embarrassment, but who cares, so cover your eyes. I will never forget that “sort of” ensign who was treacherously murdered.

Ahead—terrible things. We crossed the railroad tracks by Zadvurdze. The Poles are fighting their way along the railroad tracks to Lvov. An attack in the evening at the farm. Carnage. The military commissar and I ride along the tracks, begging the men not to butcher the prisoners, Apanasenko* washes his hands of it. Sheko s tongue ran away with him: “Butcher them all!” It played a horrifying role. I didnt look into their faces, they impaled them, shot them, corpses covered with bodies, one they undress, another they shoot, moans, yells, wheezing, our squadron led the attack, Apanasenko stands to the side, the squadron has dressed up, Matusevichs horse was killed, his face frightening, dirty, he is running, looking for a horse. This is hell. How we bring freedom—terrible. They search a farm, men are dragged out, Apanasenko: Dont waste bullets, butcher them. Apanasenko always says—butcher the nurse, butcher the Poles.

We spend the night in Zadvurdze, bad quarters, I’m with Sheko, good food, ceaseless skirmishes, Im living a soldiers life, completely worn out, we are waiting in the forest, nothing to eat all day, Sheko’s carriage arrives, brings something, I’m often at the observation point, the work of the batteries, the clearings, hollows, the machine guns are mowing, the Poles are mainly defending themselves with airplanes, they are becoming a menace, describe the air attacks, the faraway and seemingly slow hammering of the machine guns, panic in the transport carts, its harrowing, they are incessantly gliding over us, we hide from them. A new use of aviation, I think of Mosher, Captain Fauntleroy in Lvov, our wanderings from one brigade to the next, Kniga only likes bypass maneuvers, Kolesnikov^ frontal attacks, I ride with Sheko on reconnaissance, endless forests, deadly danger, on the hills, bullets are buzzing all around before the attack, the pitiful face of Sukhorukov