Stefan Zweig - The Collected Stories of Stefan Zweig

“Come over here,” she said. And her voice was brittle as hard bone too. She led him to the nearby barn where the woodcutters kept their tools. No one was there; she closed the door. “Go over there,” she told him sternly, and once again her voice in the dark might have come from the world beyond. Then she unbuttoned her dress. It was some time before her trembling fingers found and took out the silver crucifix that she wore on a thong around her neck. She placed it on the window-sill.

“There,” she told him. “Now swear.”

“What do you want me to swear?”

“Swear on that cross, by God and all his saints and the crucified Christ, that you will do as I say!”

He would have asked questions, but her bony fingers forced his hand down on the crucifix. Outside the sound of plates clattering could be heard, the laughter and talking of the workmen, and over there the grasshoppers were chirping in the grass, but here in the barn all was silent. Only her death’s head shone menacingly out of the shadows. Her dark passion made him shudder. But he swore.

She breathed a sigh of relief, and tucked the crucifix back into place. “You’ve sworn on the crucified Christ to obey me. You will not go to that damned war. Let them find others in Vienna. Not you!”

“But suppose they come looking for me?”

She laughed again, shrill, malicious laughter. “Those donkeys, they won’t get you. If they do come in search of you, you must go out to me in the woods. Now, go back and tell everyone you’re going to Budweis on Sunday, hand in your notice and say you’ll be off to the war.”

Karel obeyed. He had inherited her stubborn cast of mind that could cope with anything. And on Saturday night he stole out to the house in the forest—she had already taken his clothes there little by little—and she showed him a room in the attic. He must stay here during the day, she said. He could come out at night, she said (they wouldn’t come then), but he must not go too close to town, and he must always take Horcek the dog with him. The dog would start barking if anyone moved within a mile of them. And he mustn’t be afraid of the townsfolk, said Ruzena, no one had ever come out to her house yet except for Wondrak and the huntsman. But now the huntsman was buried somewhere in the rocks of Italy, and she could deal with that fat fool Wondrak, ha, ha.

However, she laughed only to give the lad courage. In reality, fear weighed on her breast by night like a great block of stone. Only the Count and the guests at his hunting parties, it was true, had ever made their way out to this remote and isolated house. But small, dull-minded, ignorant creature that she was, she feared the unknown in the shape of the power with which they had begun this war. What did they really have all those books for in Dobitzan, in Budweis and Vienna? What was in them? Somehow or other, thanks to those accursed books, they must know all about everyone, every single person. They had summoned the tailor Wrba’s brother back from America, and someone had come from Holland too, the bastards had reached everyone. Might they perhaps lay hands on Karel after all? Might they not work out that he hadn’t gone to Budweis, but was hiding here in the forest? Oh, it was so hard to be alone against everyone, without anyone to talk to! Ought she to tell the priest? Perhaps he might advise her; over the years she had become used to that. And while her son’s strong breathing regularly broke the silence, its sound coming through the thin floor above her, she tormented herself: a mother on her own against the monstrosity of the world, how could she deceive all those people in town with their mean-minded books and notes and certificates? She tossed and turned, unable to sleep, and now and then bit her lip so that her child up above, knowing nothing of her fears, would not hear her groans, and then she lay there with her eyes open, a prey to all the cruel torments of dark night and horror until well into the early hours of morning. At last she thought she had an idea, and she immediately leaped out of bed, gathered up her things, and made her way fast to town.

She had eggs with her, a great many eggs, and a few young chickens, and she hurried with those from house to house. One woman wanted to buy all she had, but she would let her have only two chickens, because she wanted to talk to a large number of people—that was her cunning trick. She wanted to talk to everyone in town so that the news would spread rapidly. So everywhere she went, from house to house, she complained bitterly. It was a shame, she said, taking her child off to Budweis, her Karel. They were dragging all the young fellows off to war these days, oh, surely God couldn’t suffer them to take a poor woman’s breadwinner away from her. Couldn’t the Emperor see that it was all over if they needed such children, wouldn’t he do better to stop the war? People listened to her, sad and sympathetic, frowning gloomily. Many cautiously turned and put a finger to their lips to warn her to be careful. For long ago the whole Czech people had broken away in their hearts from the Habsburgs, those strange gentlemen in Vienna, they had been surreptitiously keeping banners and candles ready to receive the Russians and set up their own kingdom. In secret and mysterious ways, passing the news from mouth to mouth, they all knew that their leaders Kramarc and Klopitsch were in jail, that Masaryk, who was on their side, was in exile, and the soldiers had brought back from the front vague news of German legions forming in Russia and Siberia. So there had been a secret understanding at work in people’s minds all over the country for a long time before any individuals ventured to take action, and by mutual consent they approved of any kind of resistance and indignation. The townsfolk therefore gave Ruzena a sympathetic hearing, and looked regretful, and with secret delight she felt that the whole town believed her lying tale. When she passed, she heard them talking behind her back: they’ve taken even that poor woman’s son away, folk said. And good Father Nossal himself spoke to her and said, with a strange twinkle in his eye, she mustn’t worry too much, because he’d heard that this business wouldn’t last much longer. The poor silly creature’s heart beat high when she heard people talking like that: how stupid they were! Now she had fooled the whole town, all by herself, and they would pass the news that Karel had been called up on to Budweis, and then it would go from Budweis to Vienna. So he would be forgotten, and afterwards, when the war was over, she would take the consequences on herself. And to hammer the lie home, to make other people feel sure of it, she came to town week after week and went on spinning her tale: he had written, she said, saying he had to go to Italy, and telling her how bad the food was in wartime. She sent him butter every week, she said, but God knew if it wasn’t stolen on the way. Oh, if he were only back from the war, if only she had him home again!

This went on for several weeks, but one day when she had come to town yet again, and was embarking on the litany of her woes, Wondrak accosted her in a rather strange way and said, “Come along to my house and let’s drink a glass of something.” She dared not say no. But she felt cold all the way to her knees when she was alone with Wondrak in his parlour, and realized that he wanted to talk about one particular subject. He began by walking up and down, apparently undecided, and then he carefully closed the windows and sat down facing her.

“Well, and how’s your Karel?”

She stammered that he knew Karel had joined the army, his regiment had marched off to Italy yesterday. Oh, if only the war were over, she said, she prayed for her child daily.

Wondrak did not reply, but just whistled quietly to himself. Then he rose and checked that the door was well closed. She concluded from this that he meant her no ill, although he so persistently avoided looking at her.