The Complete Works of Isaac Babel Reprint Edition by Isaac Babel, Nathalie Babel, Peter Constantine (53 page)

For this day, the main thing is to describe the Red Army fighters and the air.

August 4, 1920

I am heading alone to Radzivillov. A difficult road, nobody on it, the horse is tired, with every step Im afraid of running into Poles. Things turned out well, in the area around Radzivillov there are no units, in the shtetl uneasiness, they send me to the station, the townspeople devastated and completely used to change. Sheko* in the auto-

* Yakov Vasilevich Sheko, the new chief of staff of the Sixth Cavalry Division, who replaced Konstantin Karlovich Zholnarkevich.

mobile. I’m in Budyonny’s billet. A Jewish family, young ladies, a group from the Bukhteyev Gymnasium, Odessa, my heart skips a beat.

O joy, they give me cocoa and bread. The news: we have a new division commander, Apanasenko, and a new divisional chief of staff, Sheko. Wonder of wonders.

Zholnarkevich arrives with his squadron, he is pitiable, Zotov informs him he has been replaced: 111 go sell buns on Sukharevka! Of course you’re of the new school, he says, you know how to set up units, in the old days I could do that too, but now, without any reserves, I can’t.

He has a high fever, he says things that would be better left unsaid, a shouting match with Sheko, he immediately raises his voice: “The general chief of staff ordered you to report to headquarters!”— “I don’t have to pass any tests, I’m not some little boy who hangs out at headquarters!” He leaves the squadron and goes off. The old guard is leaving, everything is falling apart, now Konstantin Karlovich [Zholnarkevich] is gone too.

Another impression, both harsh and unforgettable, is the arrival of the division commander on his white horse, along with his orderlies. The whole ragtag from the headquarters comes running with chickens for the army commander, they are patronizing, loutish, Sheko, haughty, asks about the operations, the division commander tells him, smiles, a marvelous, statuesque figure of a man, and despair. Yesterday’s battle— the Sixth Division’s brilliant success—1,000 horses, three regiments chased back into the trenches, the enemy routed, pushed back, the division headquarters are in Khotin. Whose success is this, Timoshenko’s or Apanasenko’s?
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Comrade Khmelnitsky: a Jew,^ a guzzler, a coward, insolent, but for the army commander a chicken, a piglet, corn on the cob. The orderlies detest him, the insolent orderlies, their only interest: chickens, lard, they eat like pigs, they’re fat, the chauffeurs stuff themselves with lard, all this on the porch in front of the house. My horse has nothing to eat.

The mood has changed completely, the Poles are retreating, even

though they are still occupying Brody, were beating them again, Budyonnys pulled us through.

I want to sleep, I cant. The changes in the life of the division will have a significant effect. Sheko in a cart. Me with the squadron. We are riding to Khotin, again at a trot, we’ve put fifteen versts behind us. I’m billeted with Bakhturov. He is devastated, the division commander is out and he feels he will be next.
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The division is shaken, the fighters walk around in silence, what will come next? Finally I have had some supper: meat, honey. Describe Bakhturov, Ivan Ivanovich, and Petro. I sleep in the threshing shed, finally some peace.

August 5, 1920. Khotin

A day of rest. We eat, I wander through the sun-drenched village, we rest, I had some lunch, supper—there is honey, milk.

The main thing: internal changes, everything is topsy-turvy.

I feel so sorry for our division commander it hurts, the Cossacks are worried, a lot of hushed talk, an interesting sight, they gather in groups, whisper to one another, Bakhturov is crestfallen, our division commander was a hero, the new commander won’t let him into the room, from 600-6,000, a harsh humiliation, they hurled it in his face, “You are a traitor!” Timoshenko laughed.^ Apanasenko is a new and colorful figure of a man, ugly, pockmarked, passionate, haughty, ambitious, he sent an appeal to headquarters at Stavropol and the Don about the disorder in the rear lines, in order to let them know back home that he was a division commander. Timoshenko was more pleasant, cheerful, broadminded, and, perhaps, worse. The two men—I suppose they didn’t like each other. Sheko is showing his true colors, unbelievably heavy-handed orders, haughtiness. Work at headquarters now completely changed. There is no transport or administrative staff. Lepin is raising his head—he is hostile, idiotic, answers back to Sheko.
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In the evening music, and dance—Apanasenko trying to be popu-

lar—the circle widens, he chooses a horse for Bakhturov from the Polish ones, now everyone is riding Polish horses, they are marvelous, narrow-chested, tall, English, chestnut horses—I mustn’t forget this. Apanasenko has the horses paraded.

All day long, talk of intrigues. A letter to the rear lines.

Longing for Odessa.

Remember the figure, face, cheerfulness of Apanasenko, his love of horses, chooses one for Bakhturov.

About the orderlies who throw their lot in with the “masters.” What will Mikheyev, lame Sukhorukov, all the Grebushkos, Tarasovs, and Ivan Ivanoviches do with Bakhturov?
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They all follow blindly.

About the Polish horses, about the squadrons galloping through the dust on the tall, golden, narrow-chested, Polish horses. Forelocks, chains, suits tailored out of carpets.

Six hundred horses got stuck in the marshes, unlucky Poles.

August 6, 1920. Khotin

The exact same place. We get ourselves in order, shoe the horses, eat, there is a break in operations.

My landlady is a small, timorous, fragile woman with tortured, meek eyes. Lord, how the soldiers torment her, the endless cooking, we steal honey. Her husband came home, bombs from an airplane chased his horses away. The old man hasn’t eaten for five days, now he is going off into the wide world to look for his horses, a saga. An ancient old man.

A sultry day, thick, white silence, my soul rejoices, the horses are standing, oats are being threshed for them, the Cossacks sleep next to them all day long, the horses are resting, that’s our top priority.

From time to time Apanasenko flits by, unlike the reserved Timoshenko he is one of us, he is our fatherly commander.

In the morning Bakhturov leaves, his retinue follows, I watch the new military commissar’s work, a dull but polished Moscow worker, this is where his strength lies: humdrum but grand visions, three military commissars, absolutely must describe limping Gubanov, the

scourge of the regiment, a desperate fighter, a young, twenty-three-year-old youth, modest Shiryayev, cunning Grishin. They are sitting in the garden, the military commissar is asking them questions, they gossip, talk pompously about World Revolution, the mistress of the house is shaking apples from the trees because all her apples have been eaten, the military commissars secretary, lanky, with a ringing voice, goes looking for food.

New trends at the headquarters: Sheko
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is issuing special orders, bombastic and highfalutin, but short and energetic, he gives the Revolutionary Council his opinion, he acts on his own initiative.

Everyone is pining for Timoshenko,^ there wont be a mutiny.

Why am I gripped by a longing that will not pass? Because I am far from home, because we are destroying, moving forward like a whirlwind, like lava, hated by all, life is being shattered to pieces, I am at a huge, never-ending service for the dead.

Ivan Ivanovich is sitting on a bench, talking of the days when he spent twenty thousand, thirty thousand. Everyone has gold, everyone ransacked Rostov, threw sacks of money over their saddles and rode off. Ivan Ivanovich dressed and kept women. Night, threshing shed, fragrant hay, but the air is heavy, I am smothered by something, by the sad senselessness of my life.

August 7, 1920. Berestechko

It is evening now, 8. The lamps in the shtetl have just been lit. There is a funeral service in the room next door. Many Jews, the doleful chants of home, they rock, sit on benches, two candles, the eternal light on the windowsill. The funeral service is for the landlady’s granddaughter, who died of fright after their house was looted. The mother is crying, tells me the story as she prays, we stand at the table, I have been pounded by sorrow for two months now. The mother shows me a photograph tattered by teardrops, and they all say what an uncommon beauty she was, some commander ran amok, banging on the door in the night, they dragged them out of bed, the Poles ransacked the house, then the Cossacks, ceaseless vomiting, she wasted away. The main thing for the Jews—she was a beauty, no other like her in all the shtetl.

A memorable day. In the morning we went from Khotin to Berestechko. I ride with Ivanov, the military commissars secretary, a lanky, voracious, spineless fellow, a lout—and, believe it or not, he is the husband of Komarova, the singer, “We used to do concerts, I’ll write to her to come.” A Russian maenad.

The corpse of a slaughtered Pole, a terrible corpse, naked and bloated, monstrous.

Berestechko has changed hands quite a few times. There are historic sites outside Berestechko, Cossack graves. And this is the main thing, everything is repeating itself: Cossack against Pole, or rather serf against Pan.

I wont forget this shtetl, covered courtyards, long, narrow, stinking, everything 100-200 years old, the townsfolk more robust than in other places, the main thing is the architecture, the white and watery blue little houses, the little backstreets, the synagogues, the peasant women. Life is almost back on track again. People had led a good life here— respected Jewry, rich Ukrainians, market fairs on Sundays, a specialized class of Russian artisans: tanners trading with Austria, contraband.

The Jews here are less fanatical, better dressed, heartier, they even seem more cheerful, the very old men in long coats, the old women, everything exudes the old days, tradition, the shtetl is saturated in the bloody history of the Polish Jewish ghetto. Hatred for the Poles is unanimous. They looted, tortured, scorched the pharmacists body with white-hot iron pokers, needles under his nails, tore out his hair, all because a Polish officer had been shot at—sheer idiocy! The Poles have gone out of their minds, they are destroying themselves.

An ancient church, the graves of Polish officers in the churchyard, fresh burial mounds, ten days old, white birch crosses, all this is terrible, the house of the Catholic priest has been destroyed, I find ancient books, precious Latin manuscripts. The priest, Tuzynkiewicz, I find a photograph of him, he is short and fat, he worked here for forty-five years, he lived in one place, a scholar, the assortment of books, many of them in Latin, editions of 1860, that was when Tuzynkiewicz lived. His living quarters are old-fashioned, enormous, dark paintings, photographs of the prelate conventions at Zhitomir, portraits of Pope Pius

X, a nice face, an exquisite portrait of Sienkiewicz
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—here he is the essence of the nation. Blanketing all this is the stench of Sukhin’s pitiful little soul. How new all this is for me, the books, the soul of the Catholic Pater,; a Jesuit, I want to fathom the heart and soul of Tuzynkiewicz, and I have. Lepin suddenly plays the piano, touchingly. He sometimes sings in Latvian. Remember: his little bare feet, so droll you could die. What a funny creature.

A terrible incident: the looting of the church, they’ve ripped down the chasubles, the precious, glittering material is torn and lying on the floor, a sister of mercy dragged off three bundles, they are tearing the linings, the candles have been taken, the receptacles smashed open, the papal bulls thrown out, the money taken—this magnificent church, what its eyes have seen these past 200 years (Tuzynkiewicz’s manuscripts), how many counts and serfs, magnificent Italian art, rosy Paters rocking the infant Jesus, the magnificent dark Jesus, Rembrandt, a Madonna like that of Murillo, maybe even by Murillo, and the main thing: the pious, well-fed Jesuits, the eerie Chinese figurine behind a veil, Jesus, a little bearded Jew in crimson Polish raiment, a bench, the shattered shrine, the figure of St. Valentine. The beadle, shivering like a bird, squirms, speaks in a jumble of Russian and Polish, I mustn’t touch these things, he sobs. These animals are only here to plunder. It’s very clear, the old gods are being destroyed.

An evening in the town. The church has been closed. In the late afternoon I go to the castle of Count Raciborski. A seventy-year-old man, his mother ninety. It was just the two of them, they were mad, people say. Describe the two of them. An old, aristocratic Polish house, most probably over a hundred years old, antlers, old bright paintings on the ceilings, remains of antlers, small rooms for the servants upstairs, flagstones, corridors, excrement on the floors, little Jewish boys, a Steinway piano, sofas slashed down to the springs, remember the white, delicate oak doors, French letters dated 1820, notre petit heros acheve 7 semainesMy God, who wrote that, when, the letters have been trampled on, I took some relics, a century, the mother is a countess, Steinway piano, park, pond.

I cannot tear myself away—I think of Hauptmann, Elga
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A rally in the castle park, the Jews of Berestechko, dull Vinokurov,^ children running around, a Revolutionary Committee is being elected, the Jews twirl their beards, the Jewesses listen to words about the Russian paradise, the international situation, about the uprising in India.

A night filled with anxiety, someone said we should be on the alert, all alone with feeble mishures** unexpected eloquence, what did he talk about?

August 8, 1920. Berestechko

I am settling down in the shtetl. There were fairs here. The peasants sell pears. They are paid with long-abolished banknotes. This place had been bubbling over with life, Jews had exported grain to Austria, human and commodity contraband, the closeness of the border.

Unusual barns, cellars.

I’ve been billeted with the proprietress of a coach inn, a gaunt, redheaded bitch. Ilchenko bought some cucumbers, reads the Zhurnal dlya Vsekhand is pontificating about economic policy, the Jews are to blame for everything, a blunt, Slavic creature who filled his pockets during the plundering of Rostov. Some adopted children, the mother recently died. The tale of the pharmacist under whose nails the Poles stuck needles, people gone berserk.