Red Cavalry Army

Author: Babel (Russia), translated by Fu Zhongxuan
Translator: Fu Zhongxuan / Country:
Publisher:
Publication Date: 2003-03-01
Features: Sixth Division Commander's report, our troops have occupied the new city of Voronezh today at dawn. The headquarters departed from Krapivno, with a long convoy trailing behind, making a noisy procession along the Brest-Litovsk road built with the white bones of men by Tsar Nicholas I. The fields on both sides of the road were filled with blooming purple-red poppies; the noon wind swept over the yellowing rye, and the buckwheat, standing tall like a girl, rose on the horizon, resembling the walls of distant temples. The silent Voronezh undulates, gradually leaving us and disappearing into the pearl-like mist sea of birch forests. It climbs over one hill after another, dotted with flowers, and the frail hand twists and turns among the brambles. The orange-yellow sun rolls across the sky like a severed head, casting soft light into the dark ravines, where the military flags flutter above us under the glow of the evening sky. The blood and the smell of dead horses from yesterday's battle seep into the cool evening air. The Zbruch River, emerald-green, roars and swirls, churning up waves in the rapids. All the bridges are destroyed, so we have no choice but to cross the river. The moon lies quietly on the water. The water reaches the horse's backs, flowing gurglingly through the legs of hundreds of horses. Someone drowned in the river, and loud curses were heard. The river is crowded with carts, the sound of people is loud, whistles and songs mix together, echoing in the winding river under the moonlight and the sparkling hollows.
Late at night, we arrived at the new city. In the house assigned to me, I met a pregnant woman and two Jewish men with reddish-brown hair and thin necks; there was also a Jewish man sleeping close to the wall, his head covered. In the room assigned to me, I saw several cabinets overturned, and the shredded women's fur coats scattered on the ground. I saw human excrement and the fragments of a precious Jewish vessel used only once a year (during Passover). Mr. Apollka's beautiful and wise life, like aged wine, made me drunk. In the new city of Voronezh, in this hastily occupied city, amidst the leaning ruins, fate had dropped an unknown gospel at my feet. An innocent and joyful emotion gripped me, and I vowed to follow Mr. Apollka as a model. But the honey of imaginary hatred, the contempt for the swine-like suffering of humanity, the silent, intoxicating fire of revenge—I abandoned my new vow for them.
In the residence of a Catholic priest who had fled the new city, a icon was hung high on the wall. The inscription on the icon read: "The Death of John the Baptist." I was quite sure I recognized the face in the portrait as a man named John whom I had once seen. I remembered: one summer morning, in the midst of straight and bright walls, it was silent. The sunlight shone directly onto the edge of the icon's stand, and dust sparkled and danced in the light. John's slender figure descended straight from the deep blue niche towards me. A black cloak was draped over the gaunt body of this heartless man with great dignity. Drops of blood shone on the round buttons of the cloak. John's head was cut diagonally from a rotten neck and placed in a ceramic plate, held firmly in the yellow hands of a soldier. I found the face of the deceased very familiar. I sensed there was a secret here. The dead head in the plate was painted based on the prototype of Mr. Roman, the assistant to the fleeing priest. A small snake was hanging from his grinning mouth, its scales shimmering with colorful light. The head of the snake was pale red, lifelike, and stood out more vividly against the dark cloak. I was amazed at the artist's skill and his gloomy imagination. What surprised me even more was the next day's image of the Madonna with a red face, hanging above the bed of the old priest's housekeeper, Mrs. Elisa. The same seal was stamped on both sides of the canvas. The Madonna's face was plump—that was Mrs. Elisa's portrait. At that moment, I guessed the secret of the icons in the new city. So I went to the kitchen to find Mrs. Elisa.
For many fragrant nights, the ghosts of servile old Poland, led by a mad painter, had gathered here. But was Mr. Apollka, who filled the suburbs with angels and led the crippled Janek, who had been baptized and converted to Christianity, into the ranks of the saints, also mad? Thirty years ago, on a gloomy summer day, he came here with the blind Gottfried. The two friends—Apollka and Gottfried—walked towards the small inn of Shmelyeri, two versts away from the road to Rozoven. Apollka held a paintbox in his right hand and supported the blind accordion player with his left. The sound of German-made horseshoe nails was pleasant, calm, and full of hope. A bright yellow scarf was tied around Apollka's slender neck, and three chocolate-colored feathers swayed on the blind Gottfried's hat. The visitors placed the paintbox and accordion on the window sill of the small inn. The painter untied an infinitely long scarf, like a magician's magic belt. Then he went to the courtyard, stripped off his clothes, and poured cold water over his pale and slender body. The wife of Shmelyeri served the guests wine and a plate of meat dumplings. After drinking and eating, Gottfried placed the accordion on his sharp knees. He sighed, raised his head, and trembled his dry fingers. The songs of Heidelberg echoed in the Jewish tavern. Apollka accompanied the blind man's playing with a harsh tremolo. It seemed as if an organ had been moved from the Church of St. Ignatius to Shmelyeri, with two muses, wrapped in colorful cotton scarves and wearing German-made horseshoe nails, sitting shoulder to shoulder on the organ. The two travelers sang until the sunset, then they put the accordion and paintbox into burlap bags. Mr. Apollka bowed deeply to the wife of the innkeeper, Bryne, and handed her a piece of paper.
A bearded peasant lay beside me. He held a flintlock. The backs of the warhorses were like dark beams cutting through the sky. The tightly fastened reins made my upturned feet ache. "Wake up, fellow," the peasant said, his eyes, wide awake at night, sparkling with a smile. "The horse dragged you half a verst." I unbuckled the leather strap, stood up. My face, scratched by wild herbs, was streaming with blood. Two steps away was the frontline skirmish line. I could already see the chimneys of Zamoshchitsy, the stealthy lights of the narrow streets of the Jewish quarter, and the watchtower with a broken lantern hanging on it. The morning mist flowed over us like a wave of chloroform. Green signal flares rose above the Polish barracks. They flashed in the sky, scattered like flowers, and then went out. In the silence, I heard faint groans in the distance. The smoke of secret killing spread around us. "They're killing," I said, "Who are they killing?" "The Poles are panicked," the peasant replied. "The Poles are killing the Jews." The peasant switched the flintlock from his right hand to his left, combed his beard to the side, and looked at me kindly. "These nights have been as long as whips, these nights have no end. So people want to find someone to talk to, but where can they find such a person?" The peasant lit my cigarette with a match. "The Jews have wronged no one," he said. "They have wronged us, and they have wronged you. After this war, there won't be many of them left. How many Jews are there in the world?" "Ten million," I replied, while starting to put the bridle on the horse. "They will leave twenty thousand," the peasant shouted, while touching my hand as if afraid I would leave. But I still climbed onto the saddle and galloped towards the headquarters. The division commander was preparing to depart. The couriers stood straight in front of him, sleeping. Rows of cavalry were crawling up the damp hills. "Our screws are tightened," the division commander whispered and then set off. We followed him, galloping towards Sitnitsa. It started raining again. Dead mice floated everywhere on the road. Autumn had imprisoned our hearts, and the trees stood like naked corpses, swaying at the crossroads. We arrived at Sitnitsa in the morning. I was with Volkov, the camp follower of the headquarters. He found an empty room for us near the village. "Bring some wine," I said to the landlady. "Some wine, meat, and bread!" The old woman sat on the floor, stretching out her hands to feed a cow hidden under the bed. "Nothing," she replied coldly. "I don't remember when I last had any." I sat at the table, took out my revolver, and started to sleep. A quarter of an hour later, I opened my eyes and saw Volkov leaning on the windowsill. He was writing a letter to his fiancée. "Dear Valya," he wrote, "Do you remember me?" I read two lines, then took a match from my pocket and lit a stack of hay on the floor. The flames shot up, glowing red, and rushed towards me. The old woman pressed the fire down with her chest. "What are you doing, sir?" she asked, backing away in fear. Volkov turned his head, looked at the landlady with vacant eyes, and then resumed writing. "I'm going to burn you, old woman," I muttered as I scattered the hay. "Burn you and the cow you stole." "Good heavens!" the landlady shouted. She ran into the hallway and came back with a bottle of milk and some bread. We had barely eaten half of it when gunfire suddenly erupted outside. The shots were and lasted for a long time, making us feel annoyed. We finished drinking the milk, and Volkov went to the courtyard to find out what was happening. "I've already saddled your horse," he said to me outside the window. "My horse was hit by a burst of gunfire and is no longer usable. The Poles have set up machine guns a hundred steps away. So, we only have one horse between the two of us. It barely got us out of Sitnitsa. I sat on the saddle, and Volkov was right behind me. The convoy ran forward, shouting, occasionally getting stuck in the mud. The morning light emerged from us, just like chloroform rising from an operating table in a hospital. "Are you married, Lyutov?" Volkov suddenly asked me from behind. "My wife left me," I replied, then dozed off for a while, dreaming that I was sleeping in bed.
Silence. Our horse was swaying. "Run two more versts, and the horse will get tired," Volkov said from behind. Silence again. "We've been defeated," Volkov murmured while snoring. "Yes," I replied.