Innocent Soldier (9780545355698) (14 page)

The weather’s looking up: The nights are warmer again. The remains of our regiment aren’t required to sleep among smoking and glowing remnants of houses and breathe in the sharp fumes. I’ve built us a shelter out of tin roofs in a little garden among roses and cabbages. The air there is better.

We are allowed to take turns going into town to look for supplies. There are no more rations and provisioning. It’s every man for himself. I look after Konrad Klara. And Konrad Klara looks out for me. He doesn’t find it easy, it’s true. He comes from a different world. Last night, he told me he’s just turned seventeen. So he’s just a couple of months older than I am. It’s no sort of age to go to war. Anyway, there are enough eatables for ourselves and the two frugal Cossack horses. Every so often, we stumble upon some special delicacy in a store cellar. Then we rejoice and eat like lords.

Occasionally, the colonel is indignant that the lieutenant is still hanging around with Corporal Bayh, instead of hobnobbing in officers’ circles where he should be. Seeing as he’s descended from a long line of nobles, no doubt going all the way back to some old robber baron. The colonel tells him off for that. Even if the lieutenant doesn’t have a command, it’s still his responsibility to keep his distance from lower ranks.

The lieutenant count merely smiles and asks his uncle the colonel kindly what he finds so objectionable about Corporal Bayh.

But that’s Konrad Klara for you. He’s no longer as arrogant as the other officers.

It’s one more reason to like him.

The burned and burning streets are destroyed, but they’re not dead. At first, I think there must be a lot of Muscovites still in the city. Before long, I notice that that’s not it. French and Italians and Portuguese and Westphalians and Prussians and Poles and Wurttemburgers and all the various nationalities from Napoleon’s army are doing business, offering plundered or stolen wares for sale or exchange in their various languages. Soldiers have overnight turned into tradesmen. Most of them have new wardrobes. A few are swaggering around in satin and silk, and have the allure of princes or barons.

So the
Grande Armée
is living well in Moscow. A lot of
soldiers have become stinking rich overnight. At least for a few days.

No one needs to go hungry. There are plenty of vegetables in the gardens. Around the city, there are fields full of beets and cabbages. In the ruins, soldiers bake bread and sell it for a ten- or twenty-fold markup.

I don’t buy anything, Konrad neither. We don’t have any money, seeing as we were plundered bare beside the lake in Borodino. We don’t have a penny apiece between us. Even so, we don’t go short. Among the wreckage, there are still undiscovered cellars with stores of foodstuffs. And if I fail to find anything one day, then I pilfer from the Wurttemburg and French and Austrian and Saxon traders. I don’t see anything wrong with that. The soldiers who have suddenly become wealthy tradesmen only came by their goods in the same way.

After three weeks, our regiment is ordered out. To offer security, apparently. Security for what or whom? Napoleon, who is residing in the Kremlin, waiting for a peace offer to come? Waiting and waiting. Still waiting! How much longer? Till it’s too late. This Napoleon doesn’t strike me as being terribly clever.

So we withdraw to the edge of the city. Apparently, where there was a German suburb of Moscow, a rich quarter.

The nights have gotten cold again. Konrad Klara finds the buried entrance to a large cellar, where we set up residence. The shelter is warm and dry, and it also contains plenty of provisions. One chest contains a couple of soft fur coats and cases of pistols. Konrad Klara explains that these are dueling pistols. That’s what
Russian nobles and officers use to kill each other with, in case one man jolts another or takes a woman away from him. In such cases, you have to insult each other publicly, which leads in turn to a duel. Then the officers and noblemen shoot each other at daybreak. All on account of honor. That’s the way things should be, Konrad Klara tells me. They do that in Prussia as well. And with us at home too, but not quite so often.

I feel really fortunate that I’m not a nobleman and don’t have to look after my honor. That way no one offends me, and I don’t need to be shot in any duel, either.

The furs are clean. We could easily wear them. Thieving? Konrad feels bad. But then he allows me to persuade him that we need something warm to wear. The winter could arrive any day, with ice and snow. If we have the furs, we will survive the great cold. The furs are warm and agreeable to wear. There are no lice or fleas in them, and they don’t stink. A louseless fur is a rare commodity in Russia. We give other fur wearers a wide berth. We don’t want their populations to move in with us, thank you very much.

The colonel, the major, and the two staff officers are drunk most of the time. They are drowning their rage with Napoleon and his marshals in Russian schnapps. The stuff is called vodka, and it burns like fire all down your insides. My lieutenant doesn’t join them. He would
rather stay with me, even though I used to be his servant. That’s how much he’s gotten used to me. Recently, we’ve been having conversations. Our views aren’t all that different on many things. Except for agriculture. He doesn’t know the first thing about agriculture. Which is strange, seeing that he has a farm at home that is so big you can’t see from one end of it to the other.

One sleepless night, he gets me in a long conversation. He talks about himself, and the world he comes from, his father, his brothers and sisters, and above all his mother. She must be a lovely and wonderful person. Everything revolves around her. There is no one like her in the whole world. Why is he telling me all this, with a childish yearning in his voice? It makes me almost sad. Of course, I’m happy for him that he has such a wonderful mother, but I do feel a little bit envious. Probably Konrad Klara sees the sadness in my face. He looks at me a while, and then suddenly asks me about my mother.

“I haven’t much to say on that subject,” I reply, as calmly as possible. “Except to bring me into the world, I never had one.”

“Oh,” sighs Konrad Klara. “That’s so terribly sad. But what about your father?”

“I don’t have one, either. He was hit by a falling tree, eleven years ago, when he was chopping wood.”

“Then you’re all alone in the world?”

“No, I’ve got my farmer. Even though he does peculiar things sometimes.” And because Konrad Klara wants to hear about the farmer, I tell him how I came to be a soldier at the age of sixteen.

“But that’s a scandal!” he bursts out.

“I don’t know.” I shake my head.

Konrad Klara creases up his brow. He ponders for a long time. “I expect your farmer is a real pig. Unless I’m completely mistaken, he’s tricked you in the most awful way. He brought you along to the army, in place of his own son.”

“No! No. That can’t be. My farmer’s not as cunning and treacherous as that.”

I admit, suspicion has been eating at me for a while now. At first it was tentative and uncertain, and then it was like a wicked imp, skipping about between my mind and my soul. But I was always able to push the horrid thought away.

Konrad Klara won’t let go. He’s still thinking about it. “I’m convinced your farmer is an awful pig, a veritable devil.” He gets really mad. “We’re going to have to bring that criminal to justice. If we get home safely, then I hope for his sake that God is merciful to him.”

Gradually, I start to hate my farmer.

It’s halfway through the fourth week in Moscow. A heavy stagecoach emblazoned with a noble coat of arms drives past me. A gentleman is leaning out of the open window, gazing about him in curiosity. No. That’s no gentleman. A shock jabs me in the chest like a cold flash of lightning. In spite of his fancy clothes, I recognize him straight away. It’s none other than Sergeant Krauter. And something else catches my eye as well. The coach is pulled by the two noble Arab steeds belonging to my lieutenant. What a crime! To use purebred Arabs as draft horses. So Krauter was the robber at the lake by Borodino. Damn it all. That means he also took our money, the rogue.

I try to run after him. But of course his horses, or rather Konrad’s, are faster. I wonder if he recognized me?

Rage and thirst for revenge are both banging around in my brain.

In the beginning, Konrad Klara refuses to believe it was Krauter.

“You’re seeing things,” he says mildly.

But all the same, he spends the next few days combing the whole quarter with me. We find no trace of the horses and the villain. He must have some good hideaway. Sometimes I have really peculiar thoughts. For instance, that Krauter is no ordinary sergeant. More, that he’s no ordinary human being. Perhaps he’s the devil himself.

The lieutenant is summoned by the regimental commander.

No, he’s not getting a platoon. There are almost no men and horses left. Who or what would he be given to command, if there’s nothing left to command, except himself and me?

Instead, he comes back with news.

Odd rumors are blowing back and forth through the
Grand Armée.
Changing all the time. According to one, the czar wants peace, but Napoleon has rejected his offer. Another rumor has it exactly the other way around. Napoleon is waiting for the Russians to capitulate, but of course the czar intends no such thing.

The lieutenant says what the colonel thinks about these rumors. According to him, Napoleon is trembling
with rage. He is still waiting impatiently for the czar finally to surrender. The czar has to. If he doesn’t, it flies in the face of the whole etiquette of war. After all, his capital city has been taken. The colonel has also heard that there are some French scouts bringing reports of a large Russian army advancing from the south.

“Thunder and lightning!” he exclaimed, according to the lieutenant. “May God be merciful to us! If we don’t pull out in time, it’ll be all up with us.” And then the colonel grunted crossly: “In any case, there is no
Grande Armée
that’s fit to give battle anymore. And the Russian winter is advancing upon us. It will be there, just as sure as our tiny horses drop tiny balls of dung. In addition to ferocious cold, the winter will bring such masses of snow that a man will be crushed flat unless he finds shelter in time. Winter comes with sudden speed in these parts. Overnight, even.”

That’s what the colonel said, and my lieutenant passed it on. And the colonel knows what he is talking about. As a young captain, he spent a few summers and winters in the service of the czar. Then my lieutenant says that the colonel muttered to himself: “Maybe Napoleon’s lost his marbles? If he can’t bring about peace, then he needs to turn back and make for home with all speed. What else is he waiting for? For the ruination of himself and of us all?”

That’s pretty much what Konrad Klara thinks too, and I have no option but to take a similar view myself. What else are we waiting for, in this inhospitable country?

The days are getting colder. There’s snow in the air, still shrouded in heavy gray clouds. Woe betide those it falls on! For the moment, it’s still hanging above us. But already you can smell it.

Napoleon has suddenly surfaced. He calls his
Grande Armée
together. With the last bit of ceremonial hoo-ha, he holds a troop inspection outside the gates of Moscow. He inspects the miserable remnants with no expression on his face. There are still a few officers and men who believe in the possibility of victory.

“Vive l’Empereur!”
they cry out lustily and respectfully.

The same day Napoleon orders the retreat from Moscow.

Apparently it is the 18th of October.

“Thunder and lightning! It’s far too late!” barks the colonel, and the officers agree with him.

The following morning, at three o’clock sharp, what’s left of the once so proud
Grande Armée
moves out. The tattered regiments are no longer recognizable as they
trudge back along the battered roads. Decaying bodies, heroes of the invasion, are still littered around the outskirts of Moscow. No one has taken the time to bury the shot-up bodies in the ground.

We must hurry home. And quickly. Before the Russians cut off our escape route and before the winter comes.

Our regiment pulls out with the others. Some marshal of Napoleons gives the orders. We are assigned to cover the rear of the
Grande Armée.
Ahead of us are choked highways, and left and right is devastated, empty, starved country, and behind us are swarms of Cossacks and sometimes armed peasant bands.

At least we’re going in the right direction.

I wonder if we’ll ever get home?

But Napoleon is still in charge. He orders everything that stands to be destroyed. “All food for man and beast — nothing must fall into the hands of the enemy.”

And so we pour brandy and beer and other good things into the dirt, mixing them with flour and fat and oats. All these things, suddenly gone to waste. When whole regiments had to starve, previously. Apparently, it is on Napoleon’s orders that the Kremlin, seat of the czars, has been blown up as well.

Another one of Napoleon’s orders is addressed to regimental commanders. The retreat is to follow a
southerly direction. There is still peaceful terrain there, offering enough food for man and horse. Possibly even a secure winter quarters.

The colonel is getting nervous. “Thunder and lightning! South, ha? That would be nice!”

There are powerful Russian units to the south. Kutusov himself, the stubborn Russian commander-in-chief, is at their head. He comes between the
Grande Armée
and the route to the untouched territories to the south. To engage the powerful enemy is out of the question. Kutusov forces Napoleon back along the same way he came. And that’s ravaged and deserted. There is no more food there for man or beast, no shelter, no protection from the cold. Only burned-out towns and villages and moldering corpses lining the route.

Hunger and thirst accompany the defeated army.