Wojciech Zukrowski - Stone Tablets

“Friends — don’t quarrel. These are bygones.” Nagar spoke up placatingly. “What should be of interest to us is whether today the leaders of Hungary can still exercise influence over the impulses of the general population.”

The Chinese correspondent followed them silently with a cunning look, inwardly repeating — or so it seemed — every opinion expressed by the others.

“Fortunately there is peace in Hungary,” Kondratiuk put in. “One wonders: what is the cause of this anti-Soviet frame of mind? Indeed, we Russians have nothing against you, comrade Terey. The Germans also fought against us; they have much more on their consciences, and we make an effort to find common ground with them, to educate them, to win them over, though for many years it was repeated that the only good German is a dead German. In a week we will celebrate together the thirty-ninth anniversary of the revolution. Everything will be amicable and we will drink lavishly to friendship.”

Li-Chuan looked at him attentively.

“I know what galls you,” Kondratiuk said, winking. “We beat the pants off you. Such a shabby-looking army: ragged dull gray coats, quilted jackets covered with stains, unable to stay in formation, tottering like ducks, but going forward. Humiliating to be defeated by such slovenly scarecrows, eh?”

“We fought well.” Istvan turned toward him.

“Very well, even,” Kondratiuk admitted. “Only why boast about it? What did you want from us? The Romanians dreamed of a heritage from the Romans — that I still understand — but you? We did not even have a common border.”

Terey’s expression softened. He understood that the Russian was not mocking.

“After the closing down of the encirclement near Stalingrad, when we took Marshal Paulus…”

“Wait!” Nagar broke in. “Now, something for the soul.” He raised his hands with his fingers pressed together, like a conductor focusing the attention of his orchestra. “Eat while they are hot.”

“That is for you,” Trojanowski corrected him. “Words are for the soul.”

“Oh! You were poorly brought up, Marek.” Their host shook his head sympathetically. “This is too small and too good to be counted as something for the body. This is, in one bite, delight itself. Do you smell the garlic? And the crust light as fluff? Oh, Trojanowski, Trojanowski, you do not know that whole nations are fed only on a word, and they are content, though they do not grow fat—”

“He has silenced you. Sit down: you’ve been bested.” Istvan waved him away. “Well, go on,” he said to Kondratiuk.

“We were going along in a snowstorm. Near Stalingrad. Battered tanks streaked with soot, painted with crosses: steel coffins. The dead lying under a dusting of ice crystals, with faces that seemed to be cast in iron. Ammunition boxes and gasoline barrels with bullet holes that the wind whistled through until chills ran down the spine.”

“You’re right, we should pour some whiskey. Maurice, shame on you; are you out?” Bradley broke in, peering toward the sideboard under the head of the rhinoceros.

“It was a blizzard. We saw a dark line of soldiers walking in rows of four in front of us. They were surely not our men. Different uniforms. Prisoners — they had no weapons. I caught up to them in a jeep; they were Hungarians. An officer approached me, saluted, and asked, ‘Are we going in the right direction?’ ‘And where do you mean to go?’ ‘To Siberia. When they captured us, they said we were going to Siberia.’ I confess that I was dumbfounded; no, it was not funny at all. They impressed me. They were marching in line, listening to their officers. They looked better than the Germans. I pointed out the way to the crossing, for at the Volga there was a checkpoint where prisoners were sorted out.”

“Was no one in charge of them?” Bradley was amazed. “Didn’t they try to escape?”

“Where to?” Kondratiuk laughed. “The front had moved a hundred and fifty kilometers west. There was no escaping from where they were. Going in a group, they would have been turned back by the first patrol; going one by one, they would have been killed by villagers. Where could they flee without knowing the language, in cold that froze the eyelids together and nipped like pincers? They had lost; they had to go as captives to where they were sentenced. A fine army. Such a shame that they were with Hitler.”

“The Soviet army was better when it beat the Germans,” Li Chuan remarked.

“They went in en masse,” Istvan said dejectedly, “with no consideration for losses.”

“We were in a hurry, not only to win, but to return to our country, where we went the day the war ended, because we knew that you”—he turned to Bradley—“would play your game. You would want to establish yourselves in Europe.” Leaning on his elbow, Kondratiuk ran his hand through his hair until it bristled. “But when I think of the war, often it seems to me that the women won it — our mothers, wives, and sisters. They carried on the fight, without praise, through years together. And there is no worthy monument for them.”

“A woman’s mission is to give birth,” Li Chuan said serenely. “It is a great happiness to sacrifice one’s life for one’s fatherland. If there is victory for the people, communism attaches no significance to the losses.”

“If one has little, there is little for him to lose.” Bradley frowned. “It’s easy to die then. Our people are not so eager for death. They only risk their lives if they are repaid a hundred times over. Like racing drivers or acrobats — those, for example, who walk tightropes over Niagara. If they succeed, there is money and fame. Even if not, the family will get so much that papa will be remembered as Santa Claus.”

“But you pushed into Korea and Siam, and you have made South Vietnam your buffer zone.” The Frenchman in Nagar was aroused. “You were everywhere.”

“We are a true democracy. If you cannot attend to everything yourself, give it to someone who has the desire, and sufficient strength; true, Misha?” Bradley still lay stretched out on the sofa. “It is not people who decide these things, but technology: atoms, rockets…”

“People will always be the most valuable,” said the Chinese journalist. “It is they who make the bombs and the rockets.”

“I didn’t like Germans, though they have many fine qualities,” Trojanowski recalled.

“And who likes you?” Nagar asked sarcastically. “Arrogant, obstreperous, not inclined to keep promises. Messy…”

“Women like Polish men,” Misha said. “They know how to get around the ladies — puffed up like turkeys. A Pole gazes into the eyes, he sings his own praises, he bends over the little hands and before the girl can look around she has him under the covers. To learn that from them — to learn—”

“It’s an insane world,” Terey said gloomily. “You’re all good fellows; each of you experienced the war in his own way. Each took his losses. Nagar’s family were all cremated at Auschwitz. Jimmy’s brother was shot at Dunkirk, where he walked into the sea. Li Chuan fought against the Japanese and was wounded twice, then was sent as a volunteer in a new war between the Americans and Korea. There is no need even to talk about the Russians; Kondratiuk was squeezed into a trench near Lake Balaton when his division was trying to stop the Panzer Armies. The Germans were marching to the relief of Budapest. The Russians kept them back, but at what a price. Today tanks are plowing desert sand again, people are dying, and the stench of it is in the air. And it’s made light of, because that’s the style of the crafty old guard of journalism, which cannot be astonished or terrified by anything.”

When they scattered to their cars after emptying another bottle of Nagar’s whiskey, Trojanowski, a little the worse for the evening’s drinking, stopped Terey and pressed his hand, whispering, “There are ordinary-looking boxes on the streets of Warsaw, and passersby are throwing in money for medicine and food for Budapest. People cannot be sure exactly what it is about, but they feel intuitively that it is a great issue, a matter of life and death.”