Part 32 (1/2)

And then, in the summer, came the war.

We translated the news to Babanchik--he had never finished learning his English. A smile twisted his mouth.

'Retribution!' he said; and there was something very dreadful in his uplifted hand. 'I pray that Germany will destroy all Russia.'

We turned upon him in indignation. Under our accusing eyes his arm came down and hung limp by his side. He swung on his heel and left us, muttering as he went,--

'Nothing but German sh.e.l.ls will ever break down her prisons.'

There followed the weeks and months of tense living. The Russian papers were filled with opportunities for the new work; names of old friends appeared in committee lists. As for us, we could but talk of it endlessly, and dream of it, wait for the morning paper, and talk again.

We still saw Babanchik every day, but, every day, he mattered less. We could, and did, accept without comment his att.i.tude toward the country which still held our affection, but, somehow, we had lost interest in his stories.

The war went on. The enemy was halted before Paris; the Russians swarmed over Prussia and were promptly driven back, far over their own boundary.

Riga began to figure in the dispatches, and life seemed a solemn thing--so solemn that we had no time at all for noticing that something was very much amiss with Babanchik, until he said one evening, diffidently,--

'If you could ask your doctor to stop in--some day.'

We stared at him curiously. Why did he have that ghastly look about him?

He was perfectly well only the day before--or was it last week--or was it a month ago? When was it that we had really looked at him? What had checked so suddenly the straightening of his shoulders? We could not say. But we were vaguely ashamed.

The doctor was terse and explicit.

'There is nothing wrong, chronically, save a general hardening of the arteries and a very high blood-pressure. He must have had bad news recently, a sorrow of some sort.'

'Nothing new,' I contradicted. 'He has been perfectly happy until now.'

'The war perhaps? or Russian reverses?'

'Oh,' I answered lightly, 'he cares nothing for the war, and Russian reverses would cause him no sorrow.'

The doctor left no medicine.

'Keep him amused,' he ordered, 'and don't let him grow excited. That is the only remedy.'

Keep him amused! With no thought in our minds, no word on our tongues which did not deal with the war, the war of which he never spoke, with which he had no concern!

It was the youngest brother who broke through our quandary.

'I think we have all been blind--and stupid! Babanchik never asks for war news. But why does he always happen to be about when the paper comes in the morning? Why does he never change the subject as long as we talk of the battles? Haven't you seen the embarra.s.sed look on his face when Germany claims victory? And why didn't he need the doctor until Warsaw was endangered?'

Thus did we chance upon the truth. Though even then we were not certain--not until a letter, six months delayed, came to him from Kolya.

Babanchik's hands shook when he laid it down.

'The little rat! What do you think he has done? He has sent a pet.i.tion to the Tsar, the Tsar himself! To beg to be released from prison that he may join the army. He promises to go to the most dangerous position, to do the hardest work, if the Tsar will only set him free and let him fight. The blessed little rat!'

'Fight?' I asked, and looked Babanchik straight in the face, 'fight for Russia?'

The embarra.s.sed look came into his eyes. But, even then, he did not at once capitulate.