Read Online The Burning of the World: A Memoir of 1914 by Bela Zombory-Moldovan - Free Book Online
Authors: Bela Zombory-Moldovan
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looked out over the deserted landscape, and a feeling of calm came over me. The rhythmical creaking of the wheel, as it wobbled from side to side, meant life. Step by step, it was rolling me towards life.
The cart’s cargo had gone quiet. The soldier with the stomach wound lay completely silent. A fly walked across his face and rubbed its hind legs together. It flew off, then landed again. Crows picked over the ploughed fields, as they did at home. I felt my eyes closing.
I woke suddenly: we had stopped. The orderly was talking to a Ruthene.
“Does anyone here speak Slovak?” [2] I asked.
Jóska volunteered. “He says there are Cossacks moving in the woods over to the left there.”
“That’s all we need. What are we going to do now? We can’t turn back.”
“We’ll have to take our chances. It might just be a false rumor.”
“Let’s keep going. Anyone who can walk should get off. They can hold on to side of the cart if they need to.”
Four or five of us resigned ourselves and climbed down, including my neighbor with the broken arm.
The orderly peered intently at the face of the man with the stomach wound. He called Jóska over. “Come on, help me get him down!” They pulled the poor fellow off the cart somehow. His curled-up body had stiffened, and they tried to straighten it out, pressing down on his knees. Then they laid him down, face up, by the side of the track, and scattered a little earth over him. As an afterthought, the orderly removed his dog tags. All this was done hastily: we must hurry. We set off again.
I realized that I was running a temperature. My face was burning and my throat was parched.
We approached a wretched little village. The Ruthene had come with us and he was chattering away. No one understood what he said, but that didn’t seem to bother him.
“What’s he on about?” I asked Jóska.
“Ah! That soldiers have taken everything they had. He’s asking for all sorts of things. Cigarettes. I’ve stopped paying any attention.”
My entire wealth consisted of five cigarettes. I handed one to him. He showed his gratitude.
“ Vodu! Vodu! ” He resumed his chatter.
Jóska translated. “He says we shouldn’t drink anything here. This is a Jewish village.” [3] I’d never heard anything like this before. “They don’t have anything. And anything they have, they’ve hidden.”
We had entered a poverty-stricken village of a few mean little houses. The streets were deserted; the inhabitants had retreated indoors, out of sight, from where they stole the occasional curious glance in our direction. One solitary Jew, wearing a kaftan, had summoned up the courage to stand at the roadside, holding out a wine glass filled with a yellowish liquid. I took it to be lemonade. I beckoned to him. Eagerly, he ran up to the cart.
“ Limonade? ”
“ Ja, ja, sehr fein. ”
He reached it out to me with a skinny hand. I took it gratefully and, without much analysis of the fluid’s composition, gulped it down in one go. It felt good. Whatever it was, it was liquid.
“ Ich danke ,” I said, handing back the glass. He stared at me with an expression of surprise and disappointment. Suddenly it dawned on me: his motivation wasn’t compassion towards the wounded. He wanted paying.
Rage filled me. Damned bloodsucker! He has the gall to screw money out of a poor wounded soldier who has escaped death by a hair and lost everything he had. I shouted at him: “Off with you! I have nothing!”
He jumped back in mortal fear and ran off, side-locks flapping madly, to one of the little huts. I had to smile: here was someone I could scare even in my sorry state. I had no idea I could still have such an effect.
Leaving the little village in its hollow, we slowly climbed to the top of the rise. In the far distance, back in the direction from which we had come, smoke rose in tumbling, swelling clouds, spreading out in a layer that blanketed the forests and fields; occasional billows pushed
The cart’s cargo had gone quiet. The soldier with the stomach wound lay completely silent. A fly walked across his face and rubbed its hind legs together. It flew off, then landed again. Crows picked over the ploughed fields, as they did at home. I felt my eyes closing.
I woke suddenly: we had stopped. The orderly was talking to a Ruthene.
“Does anyone here speak Slovak?” [2] I asked.
Jóska volunteered. “He says there are Cossacks moving in the woods over to the left there.”
“That’s all we need. What are we going to do now? We can’t turn back.”
“We’ll have to take our chances. It might just be a false rumor.”
“Let’s keep going. Anyone who can walk should get off. They can hold on to side of the cart if they need to.”
Four or five of us resigned ourselves and climbed down, including my neighbor with the broken arm.
The orderly peered intently at the face of the man with the stomach wound. He called Jóska over. “Come on, help me get him down!” They pulled the poor fellow off the cart somehow. His curled-up body had stiffened, and they tried to straighten it out, pressing down on his knees. Then they laid him down, face up, by the side of the track, and scattered a little earth over him. As an afterthought, the orderly removed his dog tags. All this was done hastily: we must hurry. We set off again.
I realized that I was running a temperature. My face was burning and my throat was parched.
We approached a wretched little village. The Ruthene had come with us and he was chattering away. No one understood what he said, but that didn’t seem to bother him.
“What’s he on about?” I asked Jóska.
“Ah! That soldiers have taken everything they had. He’s asking for all sorts of things. Cigarettes. I’ve stopped paying any attention.”
My entire wealth consisted of five cigarettes. I handed one to him. He showed his gratitude.
“ Vodu! Vodu! ” He resumed his chatter.
Jóska translated. “He says we shouldn’t drink anything here. This is a Jewish village.” [3] I’d never heard anything like this before. “They don’t have anything. And anything they have, they’ve hidden.”
We had entered a poverty-stricken village of a few mean little houses. The streets were deserted; the inhabitants had retreated indoors, out of sight, from where they stole the occasional curious glance in our direction. One solitary Jew, wearing a kaftan, had summoned up the courage to stand at the roadside, holding out a wine glass filled with a yellowish liquid. I took it to be lemonade. I beckoned to him. Eagerly, he ran up to the cart.
“ Limonade? ”
“ Ja, ja, sehr fein. ”
He reached it out to me with a skinny hand. I took it gratefully and, without much analysis of the fluid’s composition, gulped it down in one go. It felt good. Whatever it was, it was liquid.
“ Ich danke ,” I said, handing back the glass. He stared at me with an expression of surprise and disappointment. Suddenly it dawned on me: his motivation wasn’t compassion towards the wounded. He wanted paying.
Rage filled me. Damned bloodsucker! He has the gall to screw money out of a poor wounded soldier who has escaped death by a hair and lost everything he had. I shouted at him: “Off with you! I have nothing!”
He jumped back in mortal fear and ran off, side-locks flapping madly, to one of the little huts. I had to smile: here was someone I could scare even in my sorry state. I had no idea I could still have such an effect.
Leaving the little village in its hollow, we slowly climbed to the top of the rise. In the far distance, back in the direction from which we had come, smoke rose in tumbling, swelling clouds, spreading out in a layer that blanketed the forests and fields; occasional billows pushed
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