Part 9 (1/2)

THE WOUNDED SOLDIER

THE WOUNDED SOLDIER

BY LEONID ANDREYEV

A sad and disquieting image often rises before my eyes.

It happened in Petrograd, on the staircase of a large, new building, one apartment of which was transformed into a private ward. When I entered the porter's lodge, on my way to a friend, I saw that it was filled with wounded soldiers, who had just arrived, while curious spectators crowded near the plate-gla.s.s door. The house was new and luxuriously furnished, and the elevator on which the wounded soldiers were taken up, was carefully covered with some kind of cloth, for fear that the velvet would be soiled and the insects would get into the seams. Upstairs the wounded were cordially greeted by a priest and a man dressed in white. After having kissed the priest's hand, the wounded, evidently embarra.s.sed by the bright light and the luxury of the place, entered the ward awkwardly and silently. There were no seriously wounded on stretchers among them, all were able to walk; yet it was painful to look at them.

There was a wounded soldier in one of the last groups taken up by the elevator who strangely attracted everybody's attention. He was a short, young, lean, ghastly pale Jew. All the wounded were pale, but there was something sinister about the pallor of his face; it was a paleness of an utterly exhausted, anaemic or fatally sick man. He was walking alone, feebly moving his feet, and like everybody else bent to kiss the hand of the priest, but he hardly knew what he was doing, and his kiss was strangely indifferent and meaningless. He was evidently wounded in his arm, which he held stretched out. Several fingers were wrapped up, the others, which were not injured, were covered with a crust of dirt and blood. But on his coat, on the back, there was a large brown blotch of blood, a very large one, covering almost half of his back and in the midst of the soft cloth it bulged stiffly as if starched. And this horrible spot told the simple story of the battle and the wound. But it was not the stain that made him so peculiarly conspicuous--other soldiers had similar blotches--it was rather his unusual pallor, thinness and smallness, and, above all, an expression of peculiar timidity, as if he was not at all sure whether his behaviour was appropriate and whether he had come to the right place.

The faces of the other wounded soldiers, non-Jews, expressed nothing of the kind. These men were confused, but not afraid, and walked straight ahead, into the ward.

And then I recollected how a military sanitarian, whose duty it is to escort a train of wounded soldiers, had told me that the wounded Jews actually try not to moan. It was hardly credible, and at first I did not believe it; how was it possible, that a wounded soldier, freshly picked up from the battlefield and lying among wounded soldiers should try not to moan, as all do? But the sanitarian confirmed his statement and added: they are afraid to attract attention to themselves.

The Jewish soldier entered the ward after the others, and the door was closed, but his image, sorrowful and disquieting, lingered before my eyes. Of course, he, too, tried not to attract attention--and therein is the cause of his shyness; and when his wound will be dressed and he will be put into bed, he will also try not to moan. For, what right has he to moan aloud?

It is very possible, that he has no right of settlement in Petrograd and is allowed to stay there only as one of the wounded; a rather precarious right! And that which is home for others is nothing but a kind of honourable imprisonment for him; he will be kept for a while, then they will let him go, saying: ”Go away, you must not be here.”

And what if his mother, or sister, or father, who also have no right of settlement, will desire to come to him and kiss his bloodstained hand which has defended Russia--vague, distant Russia? But these reflections and questions came to my mind later. At the moment, I beheld, with the eyes of a peaceful citizen, the b.l.o.o.d.y, hardened blotch and the dreadful pallor of war, and the needless terror before that which, after all, is your own, and I felt an overwhelming depression and sadness.

HOW TO HELP?

_Catherine Kuskova is a journalist and social worker of considerable note._

HOW TO HELP?

BY CATHERINE KUSKOVA

Lord, what a familiar sight! How many times have we seen it during the last nine or ten months.... And every time you blush with shame and you have the feeling of being overcome and petrified in the face of the incomprehensible, elemental catastrophe.

The train slowly pulls up to the high structure of the station. The scene is laid in one of the towns of the Western section. Faces of pa.s.sengers, restless, way-worn, sickly, are seen in the windows. The cars are over-crowded beyond all measure. There are many black-eyed children, with curly black locks, and also old people, decrepit with age. The railway platform is crowded with Jewish youths, with representatives of the Jewish community, and a ma.s.s of curious people who eagerly scan the newcomers. A large crowd of pa.s.sengers emerge from the cars rapidly and in disorder. They are Jews deported from the zone of military operations. The local Jewish community had been notified by a telegram and now they are meeting the newcomers.

The community has seen to it that hot tea, bread, and milk for the children is served to the deported right at the station. A most timely measure! Many of them had had no time even to take food along; they were deported on short notice, and, besides, a family is allowed to carry no more than forty pounds of luggage. What is forty pounds for a family often very large? They can hardly afford to take some underwear and warm clothes.... Behind each family there remained a home, probably a store, a stand, a workshop or simply a sewing-machine, the sole source of income.... All are equal now in this dreadful train, which carries them away from home, naked wrecks of humanity, torn from their customary course of life and deprived of the daily toil, which fed the family. And what a terror it is to look into their eyes. It is plainly written in them: ”This is nothing, the worst is still to come.”

They sat down on the benches in the waiting room, and started drinking tea, and eating.

”Well, you are feeding your spies, eh?” suddenly remarks a porter, addressing a representative of the Jewish community. The latter grows pale, s.h.i.+vers, and quickly moves away. What, indeed, could one answer?

How does this great migration of a people impress an unsophisticated brain? If the entire population leaves a district the matter is clear; the place must be evacuated before the enemy. But the trains loaded with Jews do not come from districts already occupied by the foe. How else can a plain man construe this fact than that the Jews are spies, dangerous people, in short, our internal enemy? And so this one-year-old baby whose puffed-up, tiny hand hangs down from its mother's shoulder is also an enemy, just as is this sad girl wearily skulking in a corner, and this old man with his shaking head and wrinkled hands,--all these are our enemies, otherwise why should they have been deported before the arrival of the foe? Why such a peculiar selection of the pa.s.sengers of the dreadful trains? I go from one porter to another, asking them who was brought on. The answer is the same: ”Jews, spies....” The very arrival of such a train engenders an ill feeling toward the entire Jewish nation,--and how many such trains have arrived here lately! And if you were to stop and ask who established the guilt of these people, and whether it is thinkable that all these tens of thousands of men, women, and children should have been caught red-handed, no one will stop to listen to you. A Jew is a spy,--this is the only impression that becomes indelibly branded in the brains of the Russian population which witnesses the new tragedy of the Jewish nation. The effect of the pa.s.sage of these trains is truly terrible, it is a series of systematic object-lessons of hatred....