The People's Act of Love (29 page)

When they marched to the station in Prague in 1914 they
had worn new uniforms of stormcloud-coloured cotton and new boots, their badges and buckles had been bright, and even though they hadn’t believed in the sense of what they were doing, they had bothered to keep in formation, both because mutiny was too big a single step then from where they were and because, in summer, fresh, unblooded, in the streets with girls watching, marching had seemed a kind of dancing.

In a Siberian rail halt in autumn, five years later, mutiny hung from the branches, too ripe even to need to pick, it was falling. The soldiers’ uniforms were cut with loot and patches, darned with stolen string, a Cossack’s breeches under an English khaki tunic, American shirts stained with blood, wine and the yolk of raw eggs sucked warm from the straw they’d been grabbed from two years before and their ends finely punched with bayonet tips, a belt buckle made in Khiva and carried to the snows of the north by a railwayman who died at the controls of his locomotive as it ground from Central Asian spring to still winter in the months between revolutions, one entire Czech uniform, as handed out by the quartermaster in Bohemia when its wearer was still a citizen of the now dead Austro-Hungarian Empire, but a deception, since every sleeve and hem and quarter had been replaced since it was new, and nothing remained of the original but the idea of its old identity. A hundred men carried fragments of two dozen armies, some ancient and vanished, some formed and dissipated in a month in the edgeless continent of grass, snow and stones between Europe and Manchuria, when a charismatic gambler, generous and violent and ambitious in an occasional way, would walk into a store in some town without paved roads, dump a sagging bag of assorted gold on the counter, and request scarlet-trimmed billowing horsemen’s gear and lance pennants and mane-ribbons for a cohort of arbitrary warriors and their
mounts, and within a month, after a single raid or vodka-bout or quarrel, the finery would be sold on or lying bloodied and frozen in mud, only ready to be taken. Some of Matula’s men’s rifles had the first orange lines of rust; all had places where the varnish had worn off the wood. Their hats were a bestiary of hide, wool and fur. One soldier, Private Habadil, had swapped his watch – his own, not booty – in Omsk for a cap resembling the scalp of a balding old man with long red hair which, the vendor swore, was from a kind of man-beast which lived in the mountains of Altai. The boots they wore reported years on the move and dread of a sixth winter, leather wrinkled like great-grandfathers, makeshift re-solings of wood, truck tyre, bark, all trailing straw and rags and scraps of felt or fur stuffed inside for warmth, though it was not yet cold in Yazyk. A hundred men with 945 toes between them, the balance lost to frostbite, and 980 fingers; 199 eyes; 198 feet; 196 hands; stomachs scored by microbes; one in ten syphilitic, one in ten consumptive, and most tasting the first foul tang of scurvy.

Matula came towards them, his sabre stuffed bare into his belt, Dezort a few paces behind. Sergeant Ferko called the men to attention. They spat, sneezed, sniffed, coughed, scraped their feet together and humped their rifles over their shoulders so they leaned every way. Ferko and Matula exchanged salutes and Matula spoke, looking the men in the eye one by one. In turn each looked away, or down at their feet. Some even closed their eyes rather than contemplate the druggy charm of the captain’s lips and the carcass soul in his eyes.

‘Men,’ said Matula. ‘Comrades. Friends. We have fought together for five years. We have fought for the Emperor of the Austrians against the Emperor of the Russians. We have fought for the Emperor of the Russians against the Emperor of the Austrians. We have fought for the White Terror of the
monarchists against the Red Terror of the Bolsheviks. We have fought with Socialist Revolutionaries and Cossacks against Cossacks and Socialist Revolutionaries. I can say to you, with pride, that not once have we compromised our ideals.

‘We have fought together for five years. We have fought for others. It is time we fought for ourselves. I know you are tired. I know you do not feel like fighting any more. I know you want to go home.’

The men had been silent throughout, but when Matula said the word “home”, the quality of their quietness changed, it stiffened and tightened. It braced. It became important not to let it break.

‘I could suggest to you that instead of going home to Europe, we make a home here,’ said Matula. ‘I could remind you of what opportunities there are for enterprising men in this empty land, so little colonised and so carelessly looked after by our fellow Slavs, the Russians. I could persuade you that our own new country in crowded Europe, the country named Czechoslovakia, will need to have its empire and its colonies, as other great, civilised, modern white European nations do. But you want to go home. You want to return to that small, safe, green homeland. I am your commander, and I say: I shall not stop you. Even though no order has come from President Masaryk to leave, even though it would be shameful to desert this rich virgin land where we have spilled so much blood, I shall not stop you going home.

‘My men, there is, however, one obstacle to your departure. It is an officer of this company, Lieutenant Josef Mutz. He is not here. He has set off towards Verkhny Luk on an errand, and we can only pray that no harm comes to him along the way. Lieutenant Mutz is of the opinion that on no account must we leave Yazyk until we receive an explicit order to evacuate.
I have tried to reason with him: I pointed out how eager you were to leave. He looked at me with an expression – I would not say cold, I would not say bureaucratic, I would not say officious – evil would be putting it strongly, heartless, likewise – anyway, he warned me that he would personally denounce to the general staff in Omsk and Vladivostok any attempt by any soldier or officer to leave Yazyk until the order came to do so. I was surprised at his harshness. True, he is not like us; his first language was German, not Czech; he is of that race which killed Christ our Lord upon the cross, and persists in carrying out its mysterious private rituals; in the hardest hours of our campaigns he has hung back and watched from a distance, as if secretly preparing a dossier for use against us at a future tribunal; but I had never thought badly of him before. No doubt, according to the letter of our new military code, which he seems, strangely, to know better than us, he is correct, even if his stubbornness violates every rule of natural justice. Men, the fact exists: we cannot leave Yazyk while Lieutenant Mutz is alive, that is, while he thinks the way he does. Therefore, in the meantime, let us carry out our duties here a little longer. In the first place, that means defending this place against the Red menace, whose artillery you may have heard. Do not be concerned: I can assure you that the local reds only have three shells, and they have used them all. Perhaps, in defending Yazyk, we’ll learn to love the forest and its bounty.

‘Men, I know you are disappointed. I know you are frustrated. I must warn you not to turn your anger against Lieutenant Mutz. He may have cut himself off from his comrades. It is true that should one or more of you catch him in some isolated spot, such as the railway line, it would be impossible, despite a full inquiry, to identify who fired the fatal shot. Do not yield to temptation. That is all.’

Ferko dismissed the men. Anna Petrovna went over to Matula, who was talking to Dezort and Hanak. The three of them formed a triangle of backs. They knew she was there and ignored her. Hanak’s eyes flicked over to hers and flicked away. He had already sewn Kliment’s torn-off stars onto his shoulders. Anna could see broken threads from the dead man’s coat poking free.

Anna stood behind Matula and said loudly: ‘I want you to release Mr Samarin.’

Matula turned round slowly, still talking in Czech to the lieutenants. He nodded, and went back to his conversation. He made her wait ten minutes then came to her, the boy’s mouth smiling falsely and the eyes true to their lack of symptoms of affection, and put his hand heavily on her shoulder. She shrugged it off and pushed it away.

‘Will you let him go?’ she said. ‘You can see now that he’s not a killer.’

‘But I promised your Jewish friend to keep him locked up till he got back.’

‘Lieutenant Mutz is wrong about all sorts of things.’

‘Anna Petrovna!’ said Matula, clasping one of her hands in his, and holding it tight when she tried to pull it away. His hands were hot. ‘That’s what I’ve always said! How wonderful that you agree with me.’

‘It’s not that I agree with you about anything,’ said Anna, blushing. She managed to snatch her hand away and took a step back. ‘You’ve got to let him go.’

‘And have him wander off into the forest? Leave him in the wilderness?’

Anna looked at the ground. ‘He can stay with me,’ she said. She looked into Matula’s face. ‘I’ll take responsibility for him.’

Matula licked his lips and nodded, smiling more broadly.
‘This is interesting,’ he said. ‘If I understand correctly, you wish to sever your relationship with the Jew, and replace him with the convict? Are you quite certain? Perhaps you’d rather choose one of my men? I think I can find one who’s never been in jail, and none of them are Yids. There’s a few Catholics in there, mind you, perhaps that’d be more to your taste.’

Anna’s heart was beating hard and she considered striking Matula. She anticipated the feel of his rough skin and the scar under her hand. She thought of spitting but that took skill. ‘You won’t provoke me,’ she said. ‘I know you already. Mock me all day if you like, but let the man go.’

‘I can’t do that,’ said Matula. His smile went. ‘That’s called “bail.” What guarantee do I have that he’s not going to run away before I decide what to do with him?’

‘I promise he won’t run.’

‘You guarantee it?’

‘I’ll make sure.’

‘How about this? If he runs, I’ll shoot you.’

Anna shrugged. ‘Do you think I feel safe as it is?’

Matula’s smile returned, and his eyes moved, like a machine shifting to the next seam.

‘Lieutenant Mutz will be disappointed when he returns today and finds his friend Anna Petrovna living with a convict he doesn’t trust. Or perhaps you’re hoping he won’t come back.’

‘If he finds a way to get home to Prague, I hope he doesn’t. D’you think he doesn’t know you’ve been inciting your men to kill him?’

‘Cold!’ said Matula. ‘Such busy eyes you have, such blood in your cheeks, and so cold to old Mutzie. Go on, take possession of the unfortunate, and keep him interested, if you don’t want your boy to be an orphan.’

In

A
nna was made to wait outside the shtab while they brought Samarin out. He didn’t seem surprised that she had obtained his release. He shook her hand and told her he was grateful. She didn’t tell him the terms of his bail, only that he couldn’t leave Yazyk, otherwise there would be unpleasant consequences for her. They walked to her house. The road seemed short and the air less cold. Anna felt clean and light, as if some heavy, sticky stain had been washed off her. She talked in short, cautious phrases about her home town. It was only a night by train from where Samarin had grown up. Samarin’s language was close to her own, closer than the Czechs with their accents, closer than the castrates with their Bible talk, or than the Land Captain and his household with their concerns of class and rank. They were the same age. Samarin asked her why she’d moved to Yazyk after her husband’s death. Anna was frightened and angry for a moment before she understood it was a question that was fair and bound to be asked, and would be asked as often as other strangers came. She told a story about a house which belonged to a dead great uncle, a need for peace and solitude, and a wish to sit out European Russia’s times of trouble.

Samarin said nothing to suggest he disbelieved her and they walked on in silence. Anna Petrovna turned to him, watched him for a second, and turned away. He asked her what it was.

‘Nothing. I’ll tell you later,’ she said.

‘You’ll forget.’

‘It’s foolish.’

‘Well?’

‘I expected you to be more impatient to be free. To make me understand how much you want to be away from here. To be more angry.’

‘I could be angry. Do you want me to be?’

‘No.’

‘As far as I understand, your house is to be my new jail, and you’re to be my new jailer. Is that right?’

‘I suppose,’ said Anna Petrovna, and laughed.

‘An experienced convict, when he’s moved to a new prison, will say and do as little as possible until he’s explored the new surroundings and found out how tough the guards are. That’s any convict, including the dangerous ones.’

‘Are you dangerous?’

‘Yes,’ said Samarin. Anna glanced at him to see if he was smiling, but if he was it was hidden.

A wet, icy presence touched the back of Anna’s neck, in among the soft down between the tendons, where the spine begins. It was snowing. A flake landed on her eye and she blinked and kept her eyes open though it stung. She lifted her head to watch the grey bits come spinning out of the white sky towards them. A piece of snow rested on her mouth. She licked it off and tasted the grainy, rainy, travelled taste of cloud.

They went into the yard through the back gate. Alyosha was striking poses and mimicking the clash of steel with a wooden sabre in his hand, a peeled stick with a crosspiece he had lashed on himself. Anna called to him and he ignored her. She called again more sharply. He turned, ran towards them, and with
his arm stretched out touched Samarin’s breastbone with the tip of his sabre.

‘Surrender!’ he said.

Samarin put his hands in the air.

‘Coward!’ said Alyosha.

Anna took him by the shoulders and pushed him away, scolding him for being rude.

‘This is Kyrill Ivanovich, a student,’ she said. ‘He’ll be staying with us for a time. He’s walked here from the Arctic. He escaped from a very cruel prison camp. So behave yourself. Be nice to him.’

Alyosha looked into Samarin’s face. His pride didn’t know what to do with this information. ‘My father fought in the cavalry,’ he informed Samarin. ‘He died near Ternopol. They sent us a telegram. He killed seven Germans before they cut him down. There should’ve been a medal but it never came. Some of the Czechs have medals. Do you have a medal?’