The Complete Works of Isaac Babel Reprint Edition by Isaac Babel, Nathalie Babel, Peter Constantine (57 page)

At night the town will be looted—everyone knows that.

Music in the evening—the division commander is out to have some fun. In the morning he wrote some letters to Stavropol and the Don. The front will not tolerate the disgraceful goings-on in the rear lines. The same old story.

The division commander’s lackeys lead his magnificent horses with their breastplates and cruppers back and forth.

The military commissar and the nurse. A Russian man—a sly muzhik—coarse and sometimes insolent and confused. Has a high opinion of the nurse, sounds me out, asks me all kinds of questions, he is in love.

The nurse goes to say good-bye to the division commander, and this after everything that’s happened. Everyone’s slept with her. That boor Suslov is in the adjoining room—the division commander is busy, he’s cleaning his revolver.

I’m given boots and underwear. Sukhorukov received them and dealt them out himself, he’s a super-lackey, describe him.

A chat with the nephew who wants to go to university.

Sokal: brokers and artisans—Communism, they tell me, isn’t likely to strike root here.

What battered, tormented people these are.

Poor Galicia, poor Jews.

My landlord has eight doves.

Manuilov has a sharp confrontation with Sheko, he has many sins in his past. A Kiev adventurer. He came to us demoted from having been chief of staff of the Third Brigade.

Lepin. A dark, terrifying soul.

The nurse—twenty-six men and one woman.
¹²

August 27, 1920

Skirmishes near Znyatin, Dluzhnov. We ride northwest. Half the day with the transport carts. Heading to Laszczow, Komarow. In the morning we set off from Sokal. A regular day with the squadrons: we wander through forests and glades with the division commander, the brigade commanders come, sun, for five hours I haven’t gotten off my horse, brigades ride past. Transport cart panic. I left the carts at a clearing in the forest, rode over to the division commander. The squadrons on a hill. Reports to the army commander, a cannonade, there are no airplanes, we ride from one place to another, a regular day. Heavy exhaustion toward evening, we spend the night in Wasylow. We didn’t reach Laszczow, our target destination.

The Eleventh Division is in Wasylow or somewhere near there, pandemonium, Bakhturov
¹³
—a tiny division, he has lost some of his sparkle. The Fourth Division is mounting successful battles.

August 28, 1920. Komarow

I rode off from Wasylow ten minutes after the squadrons. I am riding with three horsemen. Earth mounds, glades, destroyed farms, somewhere in the greenery are the Red Columns, plums. Gunfire, we don’t know where the enemy is, we can’t see anybody, machine guns are hammering quite near and from different directions, my heart tenses, and so every day single horsemen are out looking for their field headquarters, they are carrying reports. Toward noon I found my squadron in a ravaged village with all the villagers hiding in their cellars, under trees covered in plums. I ride with the squadrons. I ride into Komarow with the division commander, red hood. A magnificent, unfinished, red church. Before we entered Komarow, after the gunfire (I was riding alone), silence, warm, a bright day, a somewhat strange and translucent calm, my soul ached, all alone, nobody getting on my nerves, fields, forests, undulating valleys, shady roads.

We stop opposite the church.

The arrival of Voroshilov and Budyonny. Voroshilov blows up in front of everyone: “Lack of energy!” He gets heated, a heated individual, the whole army restless, he rides and yells, Budyonny is silent, smiles, white teeth. Apanasenko defends himself: “Let’s go inside”— “Why do we keep letting the enemy get away?” Voroshilov shouts. “Without contact you can’t strike.”

Is Apanasenko worthless?

The pharmacist who offers me a room. Rumors of atrocities. I go into the shtetl. Indescribable fear and desperation.

They tell me what happened. Hiding in a hut, they are frightened that the Poles will return. Last night Captain Yakovlevs* Cossacks were here. A pogrom. The family of David Zis, in their home, the old prophet, naked and barely breathing, the butchered old woman, a child with chopped-off fingers. Many of these people are still breathing, the stench of blood, everything turned topsy-turvy, chaos, a mother over her butchered son, an old woman curled up, four people in one hut, dirt, blood under a black beard, they’re just lying there in their blood. Jews in the town square, the tormented Jew who shows me everything, a tall Jew takes his place. The rabbi has gone into hiding, everything has been smashed to pieces in his house, he doesn’t leave his burrow until evening. Fifteen people have been killed: Hasid Itska Galer, 70 years old, David Zis, synagogue shamas, 45 years old, his wife and his daughter, 15 years old, David Trost, his wife, the butcher.

At the house of a raped woman.

Evening—at my landlord’s, a conventional home, Sabbath evening, they didn’t want to cook until the Sabbath was over.

I look for the nurses, Suslov laughs. A Jewish woman doctor.

We are in a strange, old-fashioned house, they used to have everything here—butter, milk.

At night, a walk through the shtetl.

The moon, their lives at night behind closed doors. Wailing inside. They will clean everything up. The fear and horror of the townsfolk. The main thing: our men are going around indifferently, looting where they can, ripping the clothes off the butchered people.

The hatred for them is the same, they too are Cossacks, they too are savage, it’s pure nonsense that our army is any different. The life of the shtetls. There is no escape. Everyone is out to destroy them, the Poles did not give them refuge. All the women and girls can scarcely walk. In the evening a talkative Jew with a little beard, he had a store, his daughter threw herself out of a second-floor window, she broke both arms, there are many like that.

What a powerful and magnificent life of a nation existed here. The

fate of the Jewry. At our place in the evening, supper, tea, I sit drinking in the words of the Jew with the little beard who asks me plaintively if it will be possible to trade again.

An oppressive, restless night.

August 29, 1920. Komarow, Labunye, Pnevsk

We pull out of Komarow. During the night our men looted, in the synagogue they threw away the Torah scrolls and took the velvet coverings for their saddles. The military commissars orderly eyes the phylacteries, wants to take the straps. The Jews smile obsequiously. That is religion.

Everyone is greedily looking at what hasn’t yet been taken. They rummage through bones and ruins. TheyVe come here to make some money.

My horse is limping, I take the divisional chief of staffs horse, want to trade, I am too soft, a talk with the village elder, nothing comes of it.

Labunye. A vodka distillery. A hundred thousand liters of spirits. Under guard. Rain, penetrating and incessant. Autumn, everything points to autumn. The Polish family of the bailiff. The horses under a canopy, the Red Army fighters drinking in spite of the prohibition. Labunye is a threatening peril for the army.

Everything is secretive and simple. The people are silent, as if nothing out of the ordinary were going on. Oh, you Russians! Everything breathes secrecy and menace. Sidorenko has calmed down.

The operation to take Zamosc. We are ten versts from Zamosc. There I will ask about R.Y.

The operation, as always, is uncomplicated. Bypass via the west and the north, and then take the town. Alarming news from the Western Front.* The Poles have taken Bialystok.

We ride on. The looted estates of Kulaczkowski near Labunki. White columns. An enchanting, even if manorial, setup. The destruction is beyond belief. The real Poland: bailiffs, old women, white-blond children, rich, semi-European villages with elders, local headmen, all

* The central Red Army command of western and northwestern strategic points in Soviet Russia.

Catholic, beautiful women. Our men are dragging away oats on the estate. The horses stand in the drawing room, black horses. Well—after all, we do have to keep them out of the rain. Extremely precious books in a chest, they didnt have time to take them along: the constitution approved by the Sejm
¹⁴
at the beginning of the eighteenth century, old folios from the times of Nicholas I, the Polish code of laws, precious bindings, Polish manuscripts of the sixteenth century, the writings of monks, old French novels.

There is no destruction upstairs, it was merely searched, all the chairs, walls, sofas have been slashed open, the floors ripped up—not destroyed, just searched. Delicate crystal, the bedroom, the oak beds, powder case, French novels on the tables, many French and Polish books about child care, smashed intimate feminine toiletries, remnants of butter in a butter dish, newlyweds?

A settled way of life, gymnastic equipment, good books, tables, bottles of medicine—everything sacrilegiously besmirched. An unbearable feeling of wanting to run away from the vandals, but they walk about, search, describe how they walk, their faces, hats, their cursing: Goddamn, f—ing Mother of God, the Holy Virgin. They drag sheaves of oats through the impassable mud.

We near Zamosc. A terrible day. The rain is the victor, not letting up even for a minute. The horses can barely pull the carts. Describe this unendurable rain. We wander deep into the night. We are soaked to the bone, tired, Apanasenkos red hood. We bypass Zamosc, the units are three to four versts away from it. The armored trains wont let us pass, they shower us with artillery fire. We stay in the fields, wait for reports, dull rivulets flow. Brigade Commander Kniga in a hut, a report. Our fatherly commander. We cannot do a thing against the armored train. It turns out we didnt know that there was a railroad here, its not marked on the map, a mix-up, so much for our reconnaissance.

We roam around and keep waiting for them to take Zamosc. Damn it to hell. The Poles keep fighting better and better. Horses and men are shivering. We spend the night in Pnevsk. A fine Polish peasant family. The difference between Poles and Russians is striking. The Poles live more cleanly, cheerfully, play with their children, beautiful icons, beautiful women.

August 30, 1920

In the morning we leave Pnevsk. The operation to take Zamosc continues. The weather is as bad as before, rain, slush, impassible roads, we barely slept: on the floor, in the straw, wearing our boots—on constant alert.

Again roaming around. We go with Sheko to the Third Brigade. He goes with his revolver drawn to attack the Zavadi Train Station. Lepin and I stay in the forest. Lepin is squirming. The skirmish at the station. Sheko has a doomed look on his face. Describe the “rapid fire.” The station has been taken. We ride along the railroad tracks. Ten prisoners, one of them we arrive too late to save.
¹⁵
A revolver wound? An officer. Blood is flowing out of his mouth. Thick, red, clotting blood is drenching his whole face, it looks terrible, red, covered in his thick blood. The prisoners are all undressed. Trousers have been slung over the squadron leader’s saddle. Sheko makes him give them back. They try to make the prisoners put on their clothes, but they wont put anything on. An officers cap. “And then there were nine.” Foul words all around. They want to kill the prisoners. A bald, lame Jew in his drawers who can t keep up with the horse, a terrible face, an officer no doubt, gets on everyone’s nerves, he cant walk, they are all in the grip of animal fear, pitiful, unfortunate people, Polish proletarians, one of the Poles is stately, calm, with sideburns, wearing a knitted jersey, he comports himself with dignity, everyone keeps asking if he’s an officer. They want to butcher them. A dark cloud gathers over the Jew. A frenzied Putilov worker—They should all be butchered, the scum—the Jew is hopping after us, we always drag prisoners along, and then hand them over to the authorities of the military escort. What happens to them. The rage of the Putilov worker, foaming at the mouth, his saber: I will butcher the scum and wont have to answer for it.

We ride over to the division commander, he is with the First and Second Brigades. We are always within sight of Zamosc, we can see its chimneys, houses, we are trying to take it from all sides. A night attack is in preparation. We are three versts from Zamosc, are waiting for the town to be seized, will spend the night there. Field, night, rain, penetrating cold, we are lying on the wet earth, there’s nothing to feed the horses with, its dark, men ride with messages. The First and the Third Brigades will lead the attack. Kniga and Levda
¹⁶
—a semiliterate Ukrainian who is commander of the Third Brigade—arrive the way they always do. Tiredness, apathy, the unquenchable thirst for sleep, almost desperation. A line advances briskly in the dark, a whole brigade on foot. Next to us a cannon. An hour later the infantry advances. Our cannon is firing continuously, a soft, cracking sound, flames in the night, the Poles are firing rockets, crazed shooting from rifles and machine guns, this is hell, we wait, its three in the morning. The battle ebbs. Nothing came of it. For us more and more often now things come to nothing. What does this mean? Is the army giving up?

We ride ten versts to Sitaniec to lodge for the night. The rain is getting stronger. An indescribable fatigue. My one and only dream—a billet. My dream becomes a reality. A dismayed old Pole with his wife. The soldiers, needless to say, clean him out. Extreme fear, they’ve all been hiding in cellars. Heaps of noodles, butter, milk, bliss. I keep unearthing more and more food. A tortured, nice old woman. Delightful melted butter. Suddenly gunfire, bullets whistling about the stables, about the horses’ legs. We up and run. Despair. We ride to the other end of the village. Three hours of sleep interrupted by reports, debriefings, anxiety.

August 31, 1920. Czesniki

A meeting with the brigade commanders. A farm. A shady glade. The destruction total. Not even any clothes left. We clean out the last of the oats. An orchard, an apiary, the destruction of the hives, terrible, the bees buzz around in desperation, the hives are detonated with gunpowder, the men wrap themselves in their greatcoats and launch an attack on the hives, a bacchanalia, they drag out the frames with their sabers, the honey streams onto the ground, the bees sting, they are smoked out with tarred rags, burning rags. Cherkashin.* In the apiary there is chaos and complete destruction, smoke rises from the ruins.