Joseph Roth - The Hundred Days

“Do you have any more wine?” she asked. “It’s a pretty carafe.”

“Yes, an excellent piece,” said Wokurka. “Our Count Chojnicki presented it to me. He equipped us, we Legionnaires, I mean. We were in his castle and he himself drilled with us. The Emperor knew him well. He was killed the day I lost my leg. But yes, I have still got some wine left. I use this carafe only on very special occasions. And this is a special occasion for me, Angelina, isn’t it?”

He was cheerful and agile, rose quickly, refilled the carafe, and poured. His cheeks were pink, his eyes bright, and his mustache seemed to be turning noticeably blonder, as though bushy new hairs were suddenly growing and overtaking the countless prematurely gray ones. He grew talkative and told stories of battles and comrades, mocking his lost leg and saying it had not been as good as the other one anyhow; but at that moment, a severe pain shot through his hip and the half of his leg that still remained. He fell silent. He did not clearly recall everything he had recounted and did not know whether or not Angelina had answered him or even if she had been listening at all, but only felt whenever he glanced at her a tremendous desire for her, a desire that the pain in no way numbed but actually seemed to heighten. He sat, as usual, on the edge of the bed, opposite Angelina. Then he rose suddenly, supporting himself with the edge of the table, and set himself in motion. Angelina rose also. She waited, trembling; she knew what must inevitably happen. It was unavoidable and she wanted only for it to be done with very quickly. She walked to him. His breath smelled of wine and lust, his shining eyes were gentle, his mustache bristled, and he awakened in her great fear, slight repugnance, but also intense compassion. Soon she was lying, eyes closed, and she heard him remove his wooden leg, the soft sound of leather being unbuckled and the faint clinking of metal clasps.

She grew accustomed to the nights and the days and the man. By winter’s arrival, she felt at home with him, almost happy. The shorter the days, the more severe was Wokurka’s homesickness. He began to repeat with greater frequency his desire to marry and return to Poland, forget everything, and begin a new life. At home in Poland, in his Gora Lysa, there would be good thick snow by now and a healthy crisp frost. There would be large round loaves of bread with brown-black crusts and people would soon be preparing for Christmas. In this world here it rained even in December and the damp wind blew spitefully. The wind was in league with the restored King and with the enemies of France and Poland; far away was the great Emperor, who alone would have been able to quench Wokurka’s homesickness. But the Emperor himself was most likely even more homesick now than the cobbler Wokurka. The newspapers abused the Emperor on a daily basis, wrote of the great congress in Vienna and lavished praise upon the traitor Talleyrand and the good King who had returned to France and refused to pay Wokurka’s pension. All the mighty ones who had once been Napoleon’s friends betrayed and disowned the Emperor. What remained for the cobbler Wokurka from Gora Lysa to do in this land? Here and there a couple of Poles would visit him, former Legionnaires like himself, career soldiers with no other occupation, who were without pension, bread, or a roof. Although their limbs were intact they were worse off than the cobbler. They roamed through the city as beggars. A few of them dreamed of obtaining money enough to join the captive Emperor; and each of them was convinced that he alone was what the Emperor lacked, that he alone could instruct the Emperor on how to reconquer France, defeat the world anew and resurrect Poland. The simple Jan Wokurka, however, knew that it was all but foolish talk; he had a simple profession, his work made him pensive, patient, and sensible, and his injury kept him from indulging in frivolous dreams. He prepared for his departure. He told Angelina that she must go with him. She would leave her son behind. But was he still her son? Was he not more of a stranger to her with each visit? Oh, of course he was! The boy was a soldier, he had already withstood the fire of battle. He had only one mother, and that was the army. The King of France lived in peace with all the world and there was space enough in the army for a little Pascal Pietri and also chance enough for a peaceful future for the youth.

Thus spoke Wokurka to Angelina. She was thirty years old and she felt she had aged very quickly; each year of her life was filled with so much confusion and agony. She was weary and numb. So when Wokurka spoke of his homeland, she too began to believe that his peculiar country was a safe haven for peace. Poland was far from all evils and troubles. It was as soft as the snow that covered it and was enveloped in a gentle sadness, swaddled in endless white mourning for the lost Emperor. She saw the land as a gentle, white-veiled widow grieving for the Emperor. Gradually there awakened in her also a tender and mild longing for this place. Gradually her motherly affection for her boy faded. Gradually she slipped completely into the cobbler Wokurka’s world. Wokurka celebrated Christmas his way, in accordance with Polish custom. He obtained an enormous Christmas tree, which filled the entire narrow room. He put all his tools away, as well as the stool on which he normally sat in the hall, and even the globe that reminded him of his busy workdays. He gave Angelina a silk shawl, Bohemian glass earrings, and slippers that he had fashioned himself, slippers of white leather. These gifts lightened Angelina’s heart. Wokurka embraced her solemnly, heartily, and thankfully. His face smelled of soap, pipe tobacco, and brandy. He swayed a little but, remarkably, he seemed to find support in his wooden leg. He had a radiant red face and festive eyes. They sat at the table, severely restrained by the branches and candles of the Christmas tree.

“Did you find your son?” asked Wokurka.

“No,” said Angelina, “he was already gone.”

“Pity, pity,” he said. “It would have been nice to have him here.” But he said it only to please Angelina. His mind was on his homeland and the journey they would soon take.

He began to serve food that he had prepared himself. They were the dishes of his native country and his youth. They had the scent of his native village, the genuine fragrance of Gora Lysa. There was a soup of beets and cream, bacon with peas, and white cheese. He had also bought brandy. Nobody drank wine in Gora Lysa. He sang with a hoarse and unsteady voice his native Christmas carols. Tears formed in his festive eyes. He had to break off and start again.

“This is the last Christmas I will celebrate in Paris,” he said when he was done singing. “By this time next year, we’ll be at home!” And he slapped the leather brace of his wooden leg.

As she heard him speak those words Angelina felt a sharp pain, even though she had been prepared for the journey for quite some time already. Never had she dared to set her mind upon a specific week, and a specific day, and a specific hour for their journey. It was all well and good to go with Wokurka to his native country so long as it occurred at some as-yet-undetermined time, one that would be decided by chance. When she heard now that not chance but Wokurka himself would determine the exact time, she was filled with a fear of all that awaited her in that strange, faraway land and a sadness over all that she would be leaving behind. She began to sob so passionately she had to put down the glass that she had been poised to bring to her lips in acknowledgement of his toast to a “happy journey without return.”

“Without return!” This expression awoke in her a rapid string of terrifying thoughts; she would never see her son again, nor the city and street in which she had given birth to him, nor the palace in which she had been young and foolish, happy and miserable, calm and hopelessly flummoxed. She had no grasp of the true distance between France and Wokurka’s homeland; thus it seemed that his homeland was a faraway and hardly reachable wilderness. She crossed her arms on the table, sunk her head into them, and wept bitterly and violently. The smoke from the dying candles on the tree branches, the brandy she had ingested, the memory of her pointless trip to her son in the barracks, a sudden apprehensive affection for the child, her remorse over having promised herself to this man without thinking it through, but also the fact that she was now saddening him with her grief and disappointing him with her fears — all this descended upon her at once, burying her under a mountain of confusion.