Hell on Earth

hell.

Part 1

These impressions are a continuation of my first book The Great Madness. They reflect a true impression of my experiences in the plague barracks of the prisoner of war camps through which I wandered from 1916 through 1919.

This book, like The Great Madness, was published in installments in Ha’aretz in 1925. There are two others from 1920, in which I completed impressions of my imprisonment in Odessa.

In the present book, it was not my intention to present literature. In the absence of strength and hope that turned us into twitching corpses, there was one tiny spark of hope that glowed in me; perhaps despite all I would return to a normal life in the arms of my sister and tell her a little of our suffering, whose nightmares no literary fantasy could ever adequately describe.

During the course of three years I crossed the plains of mighty Russia;—Zhitomir, Moscow, Yakutsk, Tobolsk, Tashkent, Astrakhan, Kiev, Odessa—without knowing why, and who benefited from all this.

If any young boy in the world is eager for the clash of swords glinting in the sunlight,—he should also be eager for imprisonment with lice, scurvy, the lash, and hunger so bad as to eat partially roasted plague rats.

Tel-Aviv, 1932.

1

Captivity

A rainy, filthy, muddy morning.

The rain started with the last Russian attack, two days ago. It soaked us to the skin, filled our rifle barrels with mud, and now, while the Russians are marching us prisoners off, that same rain continues pouring down in torrents. We knead the doughy mud with intolerably heavy legs, and walk as fast as we can to the empty, strange, mysterious looking Russian trenches, which had seemed like a faraway universe before we were captured.

There’s something attractive about them: the entire field is under a rain of fire, and the dugouts are the closest thing to a shelter that there is.

On our way, we trip over dead and half-dead Russian bodies.

Those who are half-dead envy us: we are the lucky ones, alive and walking.

A badly wounded man reviles us in his terrible pain; Margolis translates for me:

They’re going to eat our bread and fuck our women, goddamn them!

That is our first welcome.

The closer we get to the Russian trenches, the more Russian wounded there are. In the end we pass an entire camp of groaning, sobbing invalids, reviling and cursing God and man. A satanic chorus moans and bellows deafeningly. I am reminded of Dante’s Inferno: a hell of howling sufferers, encountered by Virgil and Dante during their journey through the nether world.¹ What cruelty!

One of the wounded men kicks Margolis in passing. Margolis looks at him for a minute, bends over him, and says:

The Bible isn’t for the fainthearted!²

Showers of bullets whistle over our heads, much worse than before. We crawl on our bellies to the first Russian trench.

Margolis heaves a huge sigh, and says, as if discovering a strange truth: The rumors are true! We are being fired on by our own troops: they’re embarrassed that we’ve been taken prisoner!

"God Forbid they should be shamed in any way. Who cares if we prisoners are killed?"

"People think that we’re the lucky ones, not on the front anymore, Margolis reflects, and adds: At least we’re unmarried—but many of these men have families. And now, after three years of heroic fighting and surviving at the front, must they now be killed for nothing? Apparently, the duty of prisoners is simply to die without fuss or fanfare. Who cares if they leave widows and orphans behind? Their fighting days are over, so their lives are worthless."

Margolis looks outside the Russian trench and spits.

God damn them all to hell!

Has anybody seen Uncle Oesterreicher?³

Where is that pious old soldier now: is he pondering Torah, wearing tallith and tefillin? Should I have betrayed him and handed him over to the Russians in that orchard, just to save his life? Has anyone met up with him?

Margolis, my silent batman Pály, and myself walk single file through the narrow, muddy trench.⁴ A horribly wounded Austrian soldier walks in front of us. His shoulder has been torn away by shrapnel: a chunk of red, mangled flesh hangs down like a piece of meat along a tear in his coat.

I trip over him, eyes closed.

Someone pokes me, I hear a half-moan. I open my eyes: the soldier with a piece of raw flesh for a shoulder points hesitantly with his hand: he is asking for a cigarette. Oh God, how awful! His jaw is ripped open on one side. I quickly give him a cigarette, which he tries to stick into his torn mouth. I light a match for him. The mouth opens on one side, and, with difficulty, finally succeeds in sucking in a little smoke.

Margolis, ever ready with a quip, cites the biblical portions of the cow’s head and shoulder that must be ritually sacrificed.⁵

We hear a sudden cry. The Russian escort behind us urges us forward. Pály finally opens his mouth, with a curse: Coward!

He is rewarded by a violent blow to the back from the sentry’s rifle butt.

Margolis translates the meaning of the words to the Russian: He says you’re a coward: an armed soldier who beats up an unarmed prisoner.

The Russian looks at Pály: Magyar wild beast!

We are ordered to leave the safety of the trench: fortunately, we’re not being fired on any more.

The soldier orders us to march off. We obey. Suddenly we see, not far away, a Russian soldier leading another group of prisoners. He is trying to remove gold medals from one of the men’s chests. The man resists. The Russian raises his bayonet and sticks it into the prisoner, who falls to the ground; the Russian rips the medal off his chest.

I want to remove my own medal and hide it. Too late: our Russian escort demands it.

Don’t give it to him! cries Pály. A curse on him! Stealing is forbidden! He stands between the Russian soldier and myself, protecting me with his body.

Margolis shoves Pály to the side forcefully, and politely says to the Russian, hiding his anger, If you please.

The Russian’s bayonet stops in mid-air: he scowls, but slowly lowers his rifle. He tears the gold medal from my chest. I help him remove it, and he says to me, Thank you.

He snarls at Pály: Magyar wild beast!

Pály cannot admit defeat. Our Kaiser, Franz Joseph himself, presented this medal! he protests bitterly.

Margolis’s two biblical comments suit the occasion: "‘The Lord has given and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.’⁶ ‘It is better to live like a dog than die like a lion.’"⁷

The Russian stands the prisoners to, removing all the medals from their chests, one by one. When he reaches the soldier with the shattered shoulder, he looks at him and grimaces with nausea and pity: Fuck it all!

He turns to Pály, shows him the wounded man, and says, Come here, Magyar beast!

Margolis comments without moving: Wild Magyar beasts did not do this to this man! Russian shells did!

Wagons filled with our captured officers are crossing the road. They sit bare-headed, smoking. One of them calls to us: All is lost, boys. All is lost.

Our Russian stops one of the wagons and orders one of the officers off, to make a place for the mutilated soldier. The officer refuses.

Pály’s eyes redden and bulge with anger.

Our Russian raises his bayonet: Get off at once, you miserable shit, else I will kill you right now!

The officer gets off unwillingly, and the Russian orders him to help the mutilated man onto the wagon, helping the man as well. Another Austrian officer offers to help—but the wounded man recoils, mocking him bitterly: Thank you kindly, Herr Oberleutnant! If you were in my position, I wouldn’t help you either.

Bravo, shouts Pály, and quickly helps the man get on the wagon. The Russian shakes Pály’s hand warmly.

Thank you very much, Pály says, and turns to Margolis. What is the Russian for ‘man of valor’?

"Molodets," answers Margolis

"Molodets," Pály compliments the Russian and shakes his hand.

Politely but mockingly, he escorts the officer to the ranks. Please join us, sir; we are all prisoners together.

Exactly right, says Margolis. In a place where God’s name is desecrated, everyone is dishonored.

Just you wait! thunders the insulted officer. Just you wait, you lousy shit! When we return home one day, you’ll get yours!

Pály gives him a long look, goes up to him, and bawls like a sergeant major, straight in his face: At your command, Herr Oberleutnant!

He enters the ranks.

I open my eyes wide and look around. The saga of our captivity has started.

A strange new feeling comes over me. It’s a pleasant sensation: we’re not being shot at.

The rain has stopped, and the sun has come out. How beautiful life is.

We walk.

Hordes of prisoners crowd onto the road from all sides, swelling our ranks. Hundreds and thousands, all from our division. One Russian sentry escorts hundreds of prisoners.

What a strange sight—thousands of Hungarian, Austrians, Czechs, Bosnians, Germans, even Turkish soldiers, led by the nose by one armed Russian escort.

During only one night we have become a herd of cattle transported in bulk, to do with as they wish. Will they butcher us, or just leave us to lie around and chew the cud?

I see something strange: the soul of our officers is suddenly gone. Their spirit of heroism, pride, control, title, honor, character—all the things that make them men—have disappeared. They have become empty suits, without duty, character, or honor.

The king’s son has suddenly become a dog, walking on all fours.

It is as if the Russian soldier does not hold a rifle but a whip, to control animals, not men.

After the rout of the Austrian army at the Battle of Austerlitz, when the prisoners passed before the Victor, he said in pity and contempt: Are these the enemies who hate me? Are they worth hating?⁸

The Emperor was wrong. If he were here now, to see his own soldiers in captivity, he would see that his own brave soldiers are not worth hating either: from the moment they are taken captive.

From that brief moment.

From the exact moment when the victor hands the vanquished a cigarette.

2

The Gypsy Peep Show

Our first station is the town of Chortkov.¹

I know the town well. About a year ago, our regiment withdrew behind it and remained there for a while.

The whole town took care of us then. Everyone—especially the Jews—was happy and generous.

Now, we are invisible.

They stand and look at us from a distance, as if we are department store dummies. Their faces reflect neither empathy nor sadness.

War and captives are day-to-day affairs now.

Only the women don’t change: A year ago they crowded around our officers—now, they hang onto Russian officers. Sorry you lost, their eyes say.

They herd us into a huge yard and announce that we will get something to eat soon. We settle down, and each of us starts looking for acquaintances: are they still alive? There is confusion, with some moments of happiness and joy, followed by shame and disgrace that we have been taken captive.

Servus, my friend! Two prisoners embrace tightly. You are alive? Nu, Thank God! They lower their heads like beaten dogs.

So, my friend, it is terrible. What will happen?

I’ll commit suicide.

I can’t bear it.

Did I fight and suffer for two years for this?

I’m ashamed of myself.

How will I look my Herr Commandant in the face?

I can’t bear this suffering!

And a second pair:

I don’t have a bullet, but I do have a belt to hang myself.

I won’t write to my wife about this disgrace.

I’ll run away.

Quite right. And if they catch me—what do I care? The worst they can do is put a bullet into my head. Better that than to be a prisoner.

A third group whispers:

We need to obtain civvies.

I’ve already taken care of that: farmer’s clothes are ready.

I’ve given my word to my major that I will meet him this evening; he promised he would do the same.

I’ve taken a vow to not even enjoy a glass of water here.

If only I would die today!

I’ll go mad! On the front, our comrades are fighting like lions—and here we eat, drink, and make merry, as if nothing is happening. It’s too awful!

I rack my brain to find the meaning of these sighs, these profound groans, and desires to go mad and commit suicide. I find two main emotions. Firstly, an unpleasant feeling that those who hate me have won. (I’m not talking about the victory of those who hate our homeland: similar defeats have occurred more than once during this war.) Secondly, a feeling of pleasure with life, sun, the ability to breathe freely without the whistle of bullets or barked out commands.

And the officers with their noble sentiments?

If their feelings are genuine, they are the real patriots, because the thought of committing suicide doesn’t enter my head. Why should I die now? After two years of superhuman suffering? After I’ve been saved from tens of thousands, millions of bullets?

Why should I be ashamed?

I was taken prisoner with my entire division: soldiers, officers, commanders, even its heavy artillery.² Why take it personally?

Maybe I haven’t understood them because their spirits are more shaken than my own. I don’t share our fabled patriotic feeling anymore.

I sit on the ground under a tree reflecting, when Pály returns, cursing the Herr Officers, whose revolting behavior has gone too far.

What happened, Pály?

Nothing, sir. It isn’t even worth talking about. It is terrible.

Tell me what happened?

Pály is just about to unburden his feelings to me when an order comes down that our regimental officers must appear before the Russian commandant.

A line of captive officers stands in front of the commander’s office, whispering:

Don’t say a word!

Don’t reveal a thing!

Shut up and don’t answer.

Even if they threaten you with a death sentence.

No hints about anything.

They thirst for our secrets.

I’ll reveal the pox to them, not secrets!

I ask the officers, What’s going on?

Shut up and say nothing.

Obviously. But what’s going on? What does the commandant say?

The commandant says nothing. But we know that the Russians want our secrets.

And if we tell them nothing?

They’ll try to extract what they can from us by force.

Remain silent as the grave!

In the meanwhile, a few have already left the office—everyone surrounds them with questions:

Well?

Nothing! one man says with an air of mysterious self-importance, like a diplomat or military hero.

Another one appears and is also peppered with questions. He replies, Nothing!

Again the same mysterious self-importance and courage.

I start to suspect something.

Each time someone enters, one of our officers, waiting at the door after he himself has left the office, whispers threateningly:

Officer, know your duty!

After he has shared the secret with me, I feel that I must do what he says, to atone for the shame of captivity and save my honor.

I enter and am received by a tall Russian lieutenant general with a kind, noble-looking face. He introduces himself by nodding politely and offering his hand:

Lieutenant General Tribunov. Please sit down.

Thank you.

Do you smoke?

Thank you, no. I lie because of my oath to say nothing.

The general speaks to me in fluent High German: I have the honor to welcome you, sir, to our homeland as an honored guest, and I have a few questions that I would like to put to you. But if your officer’s duty forbids your answering one, or even all of them, you have complete freedom to do as you wish.

Thank you. Please give me permission to use this privilege and say nothing.

Of course. Perhaps the Herr has a request?

Sincere thanks, Excellency. What do I want? Perhaps I can return home to Hungary?

I am very, very sorry, he replies with a little smile. You have made a difficult request that, to my great regret, I cannot grant. Perhaps something smaller?

Sincere thanks, Excellency. Perhaps— I don’t dare, and remain silent.

He rises.

Please, sir, I hesitate to ask. Might it be possible? Perhaps Your Excellency would allow me to remain with two of my men, so that we don’t get separated?

He thinks for a moment. Are they officers?

No, Excellency. One is a corporal, the other is my batman.

Do you wish them also housed in officers’ quarters?

No, Excellency. I know that is impossible. But to the contrary, perhaps I can remain amongst the men so that the three of us can stay together.

He thinks for a minute. So, nu, I approve.

He speaks in German to the soldier, who sits in the corner near one of the tables, and whom I have not yet noticed: Squad commander, write a permit for the Herr Officer.

The soldier asks my name and regimental number, writes the permit out, and then the general signs it and hands it to me.

Please take this. I’m not sure whether this will help. Russia is huge, and who knows where you’ll be transferred during the course of this war. I can do no more for you.

Thank you very much.

He gives me his business card.

I thank him, click my heels, and leave.

Outside they pepper me with questions. I’ve told you everything, I say, after observing the comical atmosphere. I didn’t reveal any secrets.

I am greeted with amazement. Not because I betrayed them by revealing secrets, but because they hear that I haven’t played their game. I remember the gypsy peephole of my youth. When I was a young boy, a group of gypsies used to come to our village from time to time and settle at the edge of town. One of their wagons was covered by a matted roof, with a small hatch at the top separated by a black curtain. This wagon itself was the show: for the price of two pennies, we could peep inside and see miraculous things. All the village’s young men and women came, paid the entrance fee, poked their heads in, peeked for a few moments—and exited smiling coyly. What did you see there? They refused to answer. Look yourself and see! Wonderful! What they really saw was people’s backsides brushed with boot black. This was the earth-shaking miracle. In any event, it helped the gypsies earn a few coins.

It wasn’t the air of mystery on their faces that reminded me of the show, but rather the officers’ air of self-importance. Although no questions were asked of them, their faces were solemn and serious, as if the destiny of war and Fatherland depended on them and them only.

Now I have violated this with disgraceful, unforgivable treachery.

We need to remove this traitor from our company! Dump him amongst the grunts so that he doesn’t receive officers’ rations!

Of course everyone agrees.

Pály is still furious. After a few moments, Margolis appears with food. He asks me a surprising question.

What is your new address, sir? Barn two with the cows, pen four with the pigs, or manger twelve with the sheep?

What nonsense are you talking?

Don’t you know, sir? The officers asked the Russian authorities not to house them with us lowlifes. The commandant’s reply was that, other than communal quarters, the only other possible place would be the barn. And they chose the barn so that their seed shall be as the seed of horses!³

Where did you find out all this?

From the Holy Spirit, sir, who told me something else: The Russian general despises our officers. When he asked them what they wanted, all of them demanded rations different from that given us grunts. The general asked them whether, in our army, officers would agree to eat soldiers’ rations. Every one of them replied exactly the same way, as if they’d discussed it beforehand: if you give grunts decent rations, all they’ll do is ask for more! They’re never satisfied!

Where did you find all this out, Margolis?

You mean how did I find out that the general gave you a business card and a permit allowing the three of us to travel to Kiev together?

Margolis gets the news from the soldier in the office, who is, in reality, a Czech prisoner and longtime acquaintance, who serves as the general’s translator and factotum.

We sit down and devour the wonderful food that Margolis has brought us, courtesy of his Czech acquaintance who, by the way, is also a Jew.

In addition to the food, I try to digest what is making Pály so angry.

These honored gentlemen-officers won’t commit suicide out of shame.

They won’t hang themselves.

They won’t flee home with a price on their heads.

They won’t bother to obtain civvies at peril of their lives.

They won’t pass up enjoyment of even a glass of water from the Russians.

They won’t go crazy from remorse in captivity.

No.

I tell my two friends about the gypsy peep show. Upon hearing this, Margolis expounds:

This is how they will destroy our Empire. Do you know that Franz Joseph will be the last Habsburg Monarch?

What will happen then?

A republic.

How do you know this?

Very simple. Franz Joseph—may his glory be exalted—is, when Hebrew letters are taken as numbers, equivalent to ‘After him a republic in Vienna.’⁴ This is Margolis’s exact Talmudic take on the entire situation.

3

The Shoe Revolution

The stupidity and malice of our officers’ requests are obscene. The Russians mock their shameful demands, which makes their initial bad impression even worse. Those who strut around are not professional staff officers. No, they are citizen officers, yesterday’s educated class: self-important liberal arts scholars, doctors, lawyers, teachers, office clerks, scriveners, and those who cannot land a job, perhaps because they are too good for it. People with slimy official uniforms: shoes with worn-down heels, sweat-stained hats, and collars frayed at both ends. Those who use their work clothes first as party disguises, and strut about like puffed-up turkey cocks. Flying bullets and ever-present death at the front reminded them how good civilian life was. But here, under clear blue skies, with no fear of death, they’ve become overbearing snobs. If anyone dares insult their honor, he deserves a good beating! They become caricatures: all orders are routinely barked out loud. The tallest stand arms akimbo, beating their boots with a willow stick, like policemen with whips (Margolis says, like a lulav on Hoshana Rabah), mouths spewing clouds of glory.¹ The lower ranks scurry around, making sure that all 613 drill laws are punctiliously performed.² They couldn’t care less about the sad fact that a lowly Russian soldier coarsely orders them about. Even this doesn’t disturb their charade.

Fall In! echoes throughout the yard.

Battalion! Ten—shun!

You all look like mangy apes, a sergeant bawls (obviously he has never seen an ape). What would His Majesty the Kaiser say?

What an interesting sight! I see a crowd of tattered, worn out, wounded men, splattered with blood and mud, miserable and despised, many barefoot or with only one shoe. A petty martinet stands over them and orders them to fall in, in the same old stupid way—and heaven help them if their buttons don’t shine!

This comedy will end badly: soon something is going to explode. Only one sneeze is needed to change this into a cackling lunatic asylum. The officers feel this and push their weight around even more.

Two dangerous anarchists, bombs in hand, stand next to me: Pály the young Magyar, ready at any minute to replace orders with a stink bomb that ruins the officers’ self-importance; and Margolis the yeshiva bokher, with his gallows humor.³ Both of them are enough to light a fire that will blaze out of control.

What the hell are you doing? The wheezing voice of a little ensign is heard.

Suddenly we hear from the adjacent row: Herr Ensign, beg to inform that I have not finished polishing my boots.

I look. The person speaking so politely is a barefoot soldier, clothed in rags from head to toe.

Silence.

The voice of Margolis is heard in the land: As punishment, he must take off his boots!

The laughter sounds like the cackle of crows.

They laugh and laugh; then someone starts to sneeze, others follow, and the sound is interspersed with miscellaneous wisecracks—all this inside organized rows of disciplined men.⁴ Seeing this, the higher-ranking officers move out of range, some of them with a smile on their twisted mugs. The lower ranks, who have to receive the orders, stand confused, looking for help from their higher-ups.

One of the officers grabs Margolis by the shoulders and shakes him: How dare you?!

He is about to slap Margolis’s face, but Pály grabs him by the throat in a vice-like grip, and shoves him backward, He falls flat on his face and gets up, ready to attack, but the armed Russian guard quickly intervenes, and as if shielding Pály, pushes the ensign away.

Get lost!

One of our high-ranking officers tells the ensign, Calm down, friend. It isn’t worth it. Their day will come.

He looks at me. Is he your batman? You’ve trained him well, haven’t you, you miserable shit! Don’t worry: this will all come out later, when you are all court martialed!

In the heavenly high court, Margolis rumbles in Hebrew.⁵

Margolis’s comment is very daring, because all this will get us into trouble when we return home. The officers will make sure to trumpet this awful insult to all and sundry. Does military law not state that full military discipline is also obligatory in captivity? Look how we have broken it here!

What will this lead to in the future? The answer is obvious. But, for good or ill, we’ve been delivered into the hands of Russian soldiers by a Russian officer, who has stood aside with his comrades, silently observing