V

Apostol Bologa took over the command of his battery, chatted a while with the other officers of his sector, and then retired to his dug-out to rest. He stretched himself on his plank bed. He was worn out with fatigue and insomnia, for all the previous night he had tossed in torment, but now his heart felt lighter, as if he had escaped from a torture-chamber and as if all his anguish had remained behind in the village with the gibbet. A hazy light trickled down from outside and outlined vaguely the entrance to the dug-out, the improvised table with maps and compasses, books and a few empty plates, the telephone on the wall, the two stools put out of the way. He heard the monotonous, depressing, lulling rain, and he was glad, for now his mind was held, as always when he was in the trenches. No other thought than searchlights, guns, Russians, maps, decorations …

Towards evening, Captain Klapka came to inspect. At sight of him Bologa’s spirits sank, especially when the captain informed him that he had already inspected all the other batteries and that he intended to tarry here a while as if he were in his own dug-out. Apostol made his report coldly and succinctly, as if he hoped by this means to avoid any further contact but that necessitated by the service. Klapka listened thoughtfully, staring compellingly at him all the while with a persistence which confused Bologa and reminded him of their meeting of yesterday in front of the gibbet. When he had finished, the captain said suddenly, speaking with great warmth and sincerity:

“You have a heart of gold, Bologa; yes, a heart of gold.… That is why you are as dear to me as one of my own kinsmen!”

The lieutenant started nervously. He could not understand what Klapka was driving at, and the thought crossed his mind that he was being drawn. In his ears, however, echoed the kindly, perturbing words which, despite their kindness, filled him with dread and made him feel as if he were being dragged towards some danger.

“I saw how you were torturing yourself the whole night long,” continued the captain, “and I understood. Perhaps I was the only one who did understand, because I … Yes, yes, don’t stare so because I have stopped short. We must ever refrain from speaking out! We must keep silent! Otherwise …”

“Sir, I think you are making a mistake. I think that …” said Bologa harshly, almost viciously. “And I really do not know what makes you attribute to me such …”

Klapka smiled so kindly that Apostol became quite confused and broke off in the middle of his sentence.

“Since the first minute we met I understood that you looked upon me as an enemy,” proceeded the captain. “I would not have minded your enmity in the least if, later on, I had not happened to see—whilst my kinsman was dangling from the rope—that your eyes were full of tears.… Don’t protest! You didn’t know it, but you were weeping.… And those tears revealed your whole heart.…”

Bologa made another attempt to defend himself. In vain. The captain seemed to feel an invincible need to create for himself a friend with whom he could share some spiritual burden. The lieutenant’s mistrust made him hesitate a little, but then fear of loneliness emboldened him to try again. So he told him that he had learnt last night from a Hungarian captain that Bologa was a Rumanian, but for all that a model officer and an incomparable patriot. That information had saddened him, for it had made him think that those tears had been misleading. He had met many Rumanian officers since the outbreak of war, and he had always got on as well with them as if he had been their kinsman. He would not believe that he had now come across a renegade. Then later on, at mess, he had understood everything, for he also had been acting a part for two years, and like a veteran actor had concealed his strong feelings under a perpetual mask. As a matter of fact, the danger for him was far greater than for Bologa, firstly because he was a Czech, and all Czechs were suspects, and secondly … He did not, however, state what the second reason was, but went on telling him that he was a native of Znaim, a charming little town, Czech to the core, and that his parents had sent him to the military school in order that he might be able to earn his own living as soon as possible, for they had had a large family and no money. He had left the military college at eighteen, but life in the Army did not appeal to him. In the summer after he had been promoted second-lieutenant he had gone home on leave and had fallen madly in love with the daughter of a professor in Znaim. He had wanted to marry her, but his beloved had not had the dowry which was obligatory for the wives of officers—in fact, she had had no dowry at all. So, as he absolutely could not give up the girl, they had become engaged. He had made up his mind to take up a new career, and she had promised to wait for him. That autumn he had entered his name for the Bar and had begun to grind at his books. It had been hard work. The service had continually retarded his progress, and his superiors had not viewed his civilian efforts with kindly eyes. Nevertheless, he had finished in seven years. He was then a lieutenant. Upon his resignation he became a captain in the Reserves and a candidate for the Bar. A year later he had started a practice and had been able to get married. His marriage had been fruitful; every year had brought its child. To-day there were four, two boys and two girls. The war had interrupted the series. The fifth was only now on its way. From a letter-case he extracted some photographs and showed them to Apostol with much pride and emotion: first the little ones in proper order, giving the name and habits of each one, then the wife.

“But, mind you,” he added passionately, “these are abominable photographs, especially my wife’s! She is a thousand times lovelier … dainty, sweet, and pretty. That’s why her photographs can never do her justice. To know her is to adore her!”

He kissed the photographs, put them away, and murmured softly, his eyes full of tears:

“Because of them and for their sake I am as I am, Bologa! Otherwise, God knows, perhaps I, also … As it is I can’t … I am capable of any act of cowardice or meanness if it but keep me from dying before I have embraced them … What would you? I am an unfortunate wretch.… And for all that, in two years I have been home only once—for five days! Do you understand? Oh, the devils, the devils!”

He ground his teeth while the tears ran down his plump cheeks, now flushed with passion. Steps were heard coming down into the dug-out, and Klapka shut up abruptly and looked fearfully towards the entrance. It was a second-lieutenant who had come to arrange with Bologa about the night duty.

“The search-light may visit us again to-night and it would be good to prepare a warm reception for it …” suggested the subaltern.

They sat at the table, spread out the maps, consulted together, found the place where the search-light had last appeared and deliberated as to where it was likely to appear that night. They lit a candle-end, made calculations and drew up range-tables.

His mind full of the enemy search-light, Apostol Bologa completely forgot Klapka. All that night he was on the look-out, running from the command post to the guns, from the guns to the various observation posts of the battery, going even as far as the observing station of the infantry line, as agitated as if his whole happiness and the fate of the whole world were at stake. The hours slipped by, daybreak came, but the search-light did not appear.

And the next night the same thing happened, and the next. Not until the fifth night, when they no longer believed it would come, did it actually shine again, more defiantly and mockingly than ever. Dozens of shells were spent, but the light flashed on unconcernedly over the fields furrowed with trenches.

The next day, about midday, Bologa again came face to face with Klapka in the battery plotting-room. He was very pale and his eyes looked more troubled and protruding than usual. He told Bologa that the colonel had just ordered him point-blank to put an end to the searchlight scandal because their section had become the laughing-stock of the Army, and he had added that the divisional commander had promised a decoration to whoever should put a stop to the Russian mockery.

“Last night I marked it down and it eluded us all the same!” exclaimed Bologa furiously, ending with a Hungarian oath. “In the whole of my two years’ service I have never received a reprimand, and now, because of a bally …”

“Don’t lose your temper, friend, and don’t swear,” answered Klapka dejectedly. “The reprimand was not intended for you but for me!”

“It’s intended for us all, sir, and that’s just …”

“Perhaps, before I took charge, but to-day all the guilt is mine! I felt that very clearly from the colonel’s words and tone, from … He asked me why I had been transferred to this front, do you understand?”

The captain sat down on the chair near the table with the maps and looked at Bologa questioningly and afraid. The latter answered uneasily:

“In the interest of the service, of course. In war-time nothing else counts.”

“Well, the colonel knows, he must know, and still he asked me,” said Klapka in a lower tone with a shade of mystery in his voice. “And when I funked and told him a lie he did not move an eyelid, and I felt ashamed of my cowardice!”

He fell silent, awaiting an answer or question. But the attitude and tone of the captain perturbed Bologa and aroused anew in his soul all the disquiet which he had thought allayed for good. He would have liked to protest and be done with this fellow who pursued him with his confidence and forced him to share ideas fraught with so much danger, but he was aghast to find that at the bottom of his heart these ideas were dear to him, and that he kept them stored there like precious jewels.

“Sir,” murmured Apostol, staring into the other man’s eyes beseechingly.

In that look and tone Klapka seemed to find a stimulant which lifted the anxiety from his face. He sighed deeply, as if he were about to make a clean breast of it, and said:

“This cowardice stifles me, Bologa! I can’t stand it! I thought that if I concealed it I could get rid of it, but now it is strangling me. You saw the look in Svoboda’s eyes under the gibbet? You must have noticed it—everybody saw the contempt, the pride, the hope. That death is the heroic one for us! On the Italian front a Rumanian was hanged for the same crime. I was quite close and he had that same look when facing the halter. But then I did not understand. Only a few months later did I grasp with fear and dread the meaning of that look. Three officers from my own regiment, one out of my own division—all Czechs—were caught one night between the lines with plans and maps and secret papers. I was to have been the fourth, but on the day fixed for our desertion I received a letter from home and I hid like a thief. The letter reminded me of my home, my children, my wife; in the letter I found hope of a future and of happiness, I found much love, all the love of my life. How could I risk all this for something … for something … for a dream? I, too, was had up with them before the court martial as an accomplice. And there I shook them off as I would leprosy, and I denied everything, clinging desperately to a shameful life. And they kept silent and did not even look upon me with contempt. The scythe of death flashed before their eyes, but they did not flinch. And then, when the sentence of death by hanging was read out they all three shouted with one voice, in front of the court: ‘Long live Bohemia!’ while I shook like a wretched beggar asking for alms. And to prove to all that I was innocent I went to see them executed. You see to what lengths cowardice can drive one? Near the village there is a forest through which the army has cut special roads for the requirements of the front. These roads are hidden from Italian aeroplanes. I accompanied the convoy of execution and we reached a large clearing. The convoy halted in the centre of the clearing and I looked round for the gibbets. There were no gibbets, but on each tree men were hanging, strung up on the branches. All were bareheaded, and from the neck of each man dangled a label bearing the words ‘A TRAITOR TO HIS COUNTRY’, inscribed in three languages. My heart froze within me, but still I did not dare to tremble. To enable me to hide more easily my terror I had the idea of counting them, to see how many there were.…You see how base man is! But how could I count them when the whole forest was full of hanged men? Perhaps fear made them seem more numerous than they really were! Then I closed my eyes, thinking with stupid amazement: ‘This is the Forest of the Hanged.’ A Hungarian major, a tall fellow with the profile of a bird, whispered into my ear, perhaps to challenge me: ‘They are all Czechs, both officers and men, only Czechs!’ I made no rejoinder, as if I had thought his remark had been meant for a reproach. Then all three were hanged simultaneously on the same tree, an old beech with hollow trunk. When the noose was put round their necks I looked at their eyes. They were shining brightly, like stars which announce the coming of the sun, with so much nobility and hope that their faces seemed bathed in a radiance of glory. Then I felt proud of being the kinsman of the radiant three and I longed thirstily for death! But only for a moment, a single moment! Then I became aware of the struggling bodies. I heard the creaking of the branches and my heart trembled silently, timorously, thievishly, so that no one near me should hear it. A few days later I was transferred as a suspect. Now you know why I was transferred. And do you think that I had at least the decency to shed tears on my return from the Forest of the Hanged? Or even in the train on my way here? Or since I am here? I rejoiced, Bologa, do you hear?—I rejoiced that I was alive, that I had escaped from the Forest of the Hanged! Until just now I rejoiced, until the colonel asked me why I had been transferred! Just now I wept for the first time, with my head buried in my cloak so that not even my orderly should hear me. Only just now—because I am terrified of the Forest of the Hanged! Because the Forest of the Hanged has followed me here!”

Klapka stopped speaking, his eyes so wide and terrified that Bologa’s heart was filled with compassion. In the silence of the dug-out their hearts beat with the same tremulousness. The lieutenant wished to say something comforting and found himself whispering:

“Sir, the Forest of the Hanged …”

He realized what he had said, and dropped his eyes helplessly, humbly.

“Now you see what the colonel meant, don’t you?” said the captain, shaking himself as if he wished to shake off a weight. “And his remark about the search-light? You see how the two are connected? The remark is a threat for me—either the search-light or …”

He shook himself again and continued in a strangled voice: “We must destroy that search-light, Bologa, my brother in anguish! Otherwise …”

“The Forest of the Hanged!” breathed Apostol, his eyes flashing with a new hatred which had sprung up in his heart unnoticed.

Klapka, as if the telling of it had lightened his heart, now spoke of nothing but the Russian search-light and began to point out places on the map, to take measurements, to combine figures and formulae. Bologa listened to him more and more morosely without uttering a word. The captain’s voice, tremulous with fear, began to arouse his indignation. He controlled himself, but a feeling of hatred seemed to infuse itself into his blood and spread through his veins like a poison. He stared at the map and saw only the captain’s fingers which held the compass and moved hither and thither, casting a strange shadow shaped like a gibbet.

Presently Klapka went off, relieved and full of trust, with a smile on his face, leaving Bologa alone in the damp dug-out.