The Best Continental Short Stories of 1923-1924/In the Winter of War

by Marie of Romania

IN THE WINTER OF WAR

By Her Majesty, MARIE, QUEEN OF RUMANIA

NIGHT had fallen. A piercing wind blew over the countryside. It was bitingly cold. The stars were shining far up in the infinite, as if trying to withdraw as far as possible from the cold on earth. The snow glistened. Every now and then little clouds of it whirled up and were swept along by the hurricane as if seeking shelter.

A desolate night, a dark night, a night of ghosts and apparitions. With the moaning of the wind came sinister sounds—the rumbling of the cannon which, in the distance, announced the approaching battle.

By the edge of the road which was scarcely noticeable in the darkness except as a black stripe on the white snow sullied by footprints, a few soldiers were huddling together around a dying fire.

It seemed as though the storm were singling them out, heaping snow over them as the salt spray washes the rocks. The soldiers had pulled their coat collars up over their ears and their colbak down over their eyes, but neither coats nor colbak could protect them from the fury of the blizzard.

There were about a dozen men. Four of them, old men with grey beards, and one young man, guarding a group of prisoners, tattered, sad looking and resigned, squatting around the last remains of a fire. They sat with heads bowed down over drawn-up knees, hiding their faces not only from the snow, but from the eyes which pitied and despised them at the same time.

Their hands were numbed and cracked. The guards scarcely noticed them. Their words, swept off by the wind, did not get beyond the youngest who was resting against his rifle like a shepherd on his stick. He was a youth of some eighteen or nineteen years and he stared out into the night with a dreamy expression in his large blue eyes.

The snow kept falling everywhere, on the fur of the colbak, on the rough eyebrows, obliging the men to pass their hands, every now and then, across their faces.

“Vasile, the fire is going out,” one of the old men mumbled sourly, “and in this cursed night we will all die of cold.”

“Suppose we lose the way?” another murmured.

“How could we?” Andrei Scurtu, head of the little detachment, queried. He was like his name—laconic—and he always contradicted his subordinates.

“Would you have us march on with the prisoners, with frozen feet? We should have reached the village before nightfall! It makes you ill . . .”

“If we stay here, in the cold, till the break of dawn, there won’t be many of us left. And the fault will be neither ours nor God’s.”

“Whose will it be then?”

“The fault of the war,” said old Petrea Pascu, who had not opened his mouth so far.

“The war, the war,’ murmured Scurtu, “the war comes and kills like a dry summer, it sweeps away like a flood which plays havoc with sprouting seeds.”

“Especially a war like this one,” another ventured.

“Our enemies are like demons,” said a third, trying in vain to stir up the fire.

“To the devil with them,” Scurtu exclaimed, and to add extra force to his words, he blew on the fire.

Vasile turned his youthful face toward the old man.

“I pity the prisoners.”

“Pity?” several hostile voices cried out at the same time. “Pity on these foreign dogs!”

“They’re young and far from home,” Vasile explained timidly.

“And we, where are we?”

“We’re still in our own land.”

“Tt’s not due to them that we’re still here!”

For a few moments everything was silent.

“This is a night for wolves.”

“A devil’s night.”

“A night of death.”

“Vasile, we’ll freeze if we don’t get wood,” Scurtu said again.

“And where is wood to be found in this desert?” Vasile asked, still resting on his rifle.

“Your legs are young and strong,” said Petrea Pascu, “and the night . . . the night isn’t so dark.”

“It isn’t so dark because the snow is white,” explained a soldier on the other side of the fire.

“A devil’s night,” another repeated, sighing.

“Vasile, your legs are young,” Petrea Pascu said again.

Scurtu was trying to light a cigarette. He looked up.

“It’s true, Vasile, your legs are young. Why don’t you go and look for wood?”

“I’m here to watch the prisoners,” said Vasile, hard and yet quivering.

“Let the dogs watch them,” Scurtu cried, “ and remember that I’m in command!” A hoarse laugh rang out.

“Wouldn’t your father be proud if he could see you now!”

“Let the old man rest in peace! He was young in his day and had many children, many boys.”

“And what became of them?”

Scurtu shrugged his shoulders and made a gesture with his hand.

“Only God and the war can say . . . and the Germans,” he said vaguely, after a pause.

“They know how to fight,” said one.

“They’re the devil’s seed,” said another.

“Maybe. But their cannon would be useful, if we had them,” Scurtu mumbled after having lighted, with infinite pains, his miserable cigarette.

“Don’t you hear them?” Vasile asked.

“To the devil with them,” several voices cried in chorus, and then all was silent. Only the howling of the wind broke the silence of the night. Again Petrea Pascu urged Vasile to seek wood, repeating that he had good legs and that somewhere there must be wood, and the night was not too dark.

“If we don’t get wood to keep the fire going, we will all be dead before morning.”

Scurtu nodded approvingly with his head.

“Take your gun, Vasile, and go and look for wood. There ought to be some, some place.” Vasile shrugged his shoulders.

“If you really want me to go,” and he fastened his rifle to his belt and without saying another word he went off, to find, in the snow, the path which would lead him to Some wood for the fire.

The night was deep, the country deserted . . . not a house was to be seen, not a tree, not a hedge . . . not even a wooden well.^[1] . . . Where was he to find some wood?

And seeking wood Vasile started out resignedly, into the infinite night. As he trudged along, in the darkness, Vasile was plunged into a thousand thoughts, vague, indefinite thoughts and visions, happy visions which had nothing to do with winter and snow.

He saw a fertile valley through which ran a long, dusty road leading to a village half hidden behind fruit-laden trees.

In the sunset a herd of cattle were being driven home by a boy who carried a green rod in his hand.

The boy was humming a doina,^[2] slow and melancholy, always the same.

And unconsciously Vasile’s lips tried to hum it but they were numbed by the cold and only a few hoarse sounds rang into the night.

The shepherd, however, rambled along, winding his way toward the setting sun, and the dust of the road fell on his cheeks and his hands.

The road was long, but he was not in a hurry; neither he nor his animals heeded the passing of time. . . .

He adorned his stick with flowers and threw it, every now and then, into the air, still humming the doina.

A group of children and a litter of little black pigs came out to meet him. The little pigs had soft curly tails and funny minuscule snouts; the children were babbling and half naked, with nothing on but shirts.

In front of the house great pyramids of pumpkins were heaped high and rows of red peppers hung over the doors.

A cloud of dust and a peaceful happiness hung over the village. Everything was serene, quiet, and in his thoughts the boy met his love. . . .

Vasile slipped in the darkness and it was with difficulty that he climbed to his feet. He was not hurt, for the snow was deep, but the sweet visions were dispersed and once more he was seized by the biting cold of the night, while the rumble of the cannon, in the distance, brought him back to reality. “Wood—I must find some wood,” he muttered. “God! What a night! The wind stings like a whip and the snow pricks like the needles of a pine tree. Where in the devil can I find wood?”

He stopped and tried to rub his hands together, to get warm. In the darkness of the night he had not been able to follow the road and he had gone ahead, blindly.

He could not see anything. Here and there were foot prints in the Snow, and shapeless mounds which might be a heap of stones, a dead horse, or a bundle of hay. In that Solitude they might also have a more sinister meaning—everything was possible, in war time.

Vasile shrugged his shoulders and again the vision of the peaceful village came back. Again he saw the pyramids of yellow pumpkins and, behind a hedge, a girl’s silvery voice took up the refrain of the doina the boy was humming.

“But I must find wood!” he cried, driving away all thoughts of the peaceful village. “The others are shivering with the cold and I cant stay here all night.”

In looking around it seemed to him he saw a dark stripe which must be the road, and he thought it the road, and would be easier to follow it.

With much difficulty he tried to plod the path. The earth was frozen hard, he was tired and his feet were numb.

Suddenly he stopped. What was it? Three appalling figures next to one another—three ghosts—three lonely skeletons in the dark night! His heart began to thump wildly, the sweat broke out on his hands. What was it? What a cursed and silent night! But why be afraid? Ghosts are ghosts, of course, but it would be much worse to meet a German! And yet at that moment Vasile didn’t know whether in the bottom of his heart he would not have preferred meeting a German.

Fighting off his fear, he went toward the three ghosts. They remained motionless and allowed him to approach.

Three crosses! Three solitary wooden crosses, lashed by the wind! Three forgotten graves.

Vasile unconsciously made a sign of the cross and mumbled a prayer for the dead. Then he stood gazing at the three lonely crosses, wondering what had happened to those for whom they were erected.

Were these soldiers’ graves? Or women’s graves? Or children’s graves, perhaps? So many little children died from hunger and cold. Since the beginning of the war, how many children died from hunger and cold!

Suddenly he realised that the crosses were of wood, of solid, heavy wood. And was he not looking for wood? Like a man who stands and gazes at a suddenly discovered treasured, suddenly discovered treasure, so rare that he doesn’t dare seize it, Vasile remained before the crosses, fascinated. He did not dare touch them and yet he could not move away.

A terrible temptation came over him: why not take one of the crosses and carry it away to revive the dying fire? When you come down to it, the dead are dead! Their slumber is so deep that they no longer know what goes on above them! Thank God, indeed, that they sleep so deeply, for otherwise, how could one dare think such thoughts?

Stepping closer he put his hand out to seize the first cross. At the same time his conscience Smote him. No! it would be a sacrilege. The dead must be respected as much as the living. God and men would punish such an action; the dead cannot defend themselves and their graves are like altars—they must be respected. You cannot lay hands on a cross, on the last tribute raised to a man, whom Someone on earth loved.

But then temptation took the upper hand.

The dead are dead, their troubles are over, while at this very moment men are freezing for lack of wood, brave mend who are doing their duty. Better rob the dead than let the living perish—brave men, defending their country!

If the dead could speak they would surely be the first to tell him to carry the cross away—all three crosses!—to warm those who are defending their country, the brave men who are dying of cold.

With a violent gesture Vasile seized the first cross and tried to pull it out of the frozen soil. The cross resisted, it resisted like a tree whose roots were deeply planted, like a human creature bent on defending a plot of holy land. The blood rushed to Vasile’s head. The obstacle he met awakened in him the fighter’s instinct hidden in every man.

The obstinate cross now had a man to conquer.

And the strangest battle began on the deserted field. The wind howled, it sounded like a chorus of furies who had been set loose, and Vasile tugged! The inert wood opposed with almost human resistance and he made desperate efforts to overcome as if it were an enemy he fought.

With both hands clasped around the cross, as around a man, Vasile wrenched and shook the obstinate effigy which refused to yield to his strength. The sweat pearled out on his cheeks like raindrops, he took off his colbak and threw his rifle on the ground with resolute anger, and Vasile fought and struggled with all his might.

And all at once the cross gave way—so suddenly that Vasile, too, fell over and lay stretched out by the defeated enemy!

With his eyes still blinded by the effort he lay gasping, and each breath was like a sob. The wind whizzed around him and scourged his face with needles of broken ice.

But he had won, at last! The cross had been torn down, he had found wood for the living to burn. Everything was well, everything.

The fire had gone out, no embers, even, glowed any more and all talking had ceased. The prisoners and their guards, grouped dumbly around the ashes, looked like heaps of rags. In that sad night it was almost impossible to distinguish one from the other.

Through the darkness they heard a sound, a sound of some one approaching.

For a while they could see nothing and then suddenly Vasile appeared, dragging along a heavy black object, like a shadow.

Wood!

A cry of joy rose from the breasts of those who lay numbed around the cold ashes, a cry of indescribable relief rang from the torpid throats, to greet Vasile’s return. Some of them tried to get to their feet, seeking their rifles, but their frozen hands were clumsy.

Vasile did not speak. He was out of breath. His return through the darkness had been a struggle—a struggle with the wind, the snow and the ice—and above all a battle with his own conscience—and that was why he did not speak. He let the cross fall at the feet of those who were waiting.

Scurtu was the first to realise what sort of wood it was and a cry of blame came across his lips.

“It’s a cross,” he muttered, “a cross . . . a cross!” The others got up to look at the long-desired wood and all remained dumbfounded.

Even the prisoners raised their heads and looked at the others in surprise. Vasile remained silent, overcome by fatigue.

“A Cross!” cried Scurtu. “How insane to bring a cross!”

“It’ll burn, and we’re freezing,” one of the men ventured.

“No matter what happens, we can’t burn a cross.”

“It would be a great sin.”

“God would punish us.”

“We would be cursed even in our graves.”

“But we are freezing, and the dead are dead.”

“Do you think the dead will be any warmer because we suffer from the cold?”

“We have to defend our country.”

“And think of all the graves without crosses!”

“What a pity! Who would dare burn it?”

Such from all were the words that fell, almost simultaneously, from all lips. Only Vasile and the prisoners remained silent. The young man felt covered with shame and sin, but what ought he to have done? There was no other wood.

The voices, sometimes loud and sometimes low, crossed each other like angry forerunners of dispute. The wind, in its wildness, drowned them—poor human voices!

“I won’t have it,” Scurtu cried angrily. “Even if we must all die from the cold, and I with you, it would be better than to burn the cross of Our Lord Jesus Christ.”

Scurtu looked sternly at his companions. The snow covered him from head to foot, his face seemed older and was livid with the cold, he beat his arms together, trying to keep warm, but as he was the head of the detachment neither prayers nor cries could make him yield and change his mind. “Death rather than commit the sin of burning the cross of the Redemptor.

Silence fell over the group of shivering men. Clinging together like a flock of lost sheep, their shoulders high up over their heads, they lay over by the cold ashes like dead. Suffering next to suffering, enemy next to enemy—there was no difference between them. They were nothing but men before God and the horror of the storm. A little to one side Vasile sat with his head resting on the cross he had carried back with such pains. He could not fall asleep.

Although the cold had numbed his brain—none too active at best—he was, nevertheless, tormented by the problems of life.

Why the war? Why all this suffering, this cold, these sacrifices, when life could be so simple? Why, why, why? Why is God in His heaven, so far away? Why all these thoughts, this confusion of ideas and prejudices which have no clear meaning nor any immediate utility? Why death and all these horrors? Why, why?

Why does winter follow summer? Why distance and desire? Why so many things that never come back? Why? Why?

Vasile could not understand.

He sat up, resting on an arm, and tried to gaze into the distance: why was the night so dark?

What was the meaning of light and dark?

But down over there, there seemed to be a light. Perhaps dawn was breaking? Perhaps the long vigil of death was over?

Vasile stood attentive with his eyes fastened on the distant light. Was it the sunrise? Maybe. No, it wasn’t rising, it was moving . . . it moved! and it came along the road!

When daylight broke and Vasile told the others what he had seen, they, who had slept, would not believe him. And yet they had slept, while he was awake.

But such is man: as incredulous as Saint Thomas, who would not believe in anything unless he could touch it.

Over the snow, coming toward him, Vasile saw a white figure surrounded by light—and it, too, was all light. It was so brilliant that Vasile could not understand that the others did not wake up.

A long, brilliant trail followed the moving figure—a road of glory trod by holy feet—for the one who walked over the snow was the Son of Man, was the Son of God. . . . He came out of the night, He, a radiant figure. Vasile fell on his knees and took off his colbak and folded his hands in prayer.

All suffering was forgotten. All the struggle, the doubts, the questions which weighed so heavily on his heart, were forgotten. He was only a sentinel in the night, a lost child whom God came to see. His whole soul was wrapped in ecstasy, for the Son of Light had come to him, Vasile, who had stolen a cross off a grave!

But what was the Son of God carrying on His shoulders? A dark, heavy and cumbersome object.

The cross! Jesus was carrying His cross. Why? Oh, why?

He walked lightly over the snow. The cross did not seem heavy for Him to carry. Vasile still felt, in his shoulders, the weight of the cross he had been carrying. The luminous figure did not stop before the young soldier, but Vasile’s eyes were filled with a dazzling, celestial sensation as He passed quietly by the spot where the young man was kneeling.

He went right up to where the soldiers were sleeping, stepped into their midst and Vasile saw—saw with his own eyes—how the Son of God threw His cross on the dark ashes while suddenly a glorious flame burst out, enveloping the cross until the cross, the cross of Our Lord Jesus Christ was nothing but a huge, living torch!

Jesus had carried His Cross, had carried it to relight the fire, that these miserable human beings should not perish!

Vasile still remembered, but confusedly, what had happened. He remained kneeling as long as the flame lasted, and then he fell and forgot everything, near the saving fire.

Day had come. One by one the soldiers and prisoners awoke and oh, miracle! the cold ashes of the night were red and glowing, and a blessed fire sent out warmth. A living fire—the freezing cold was nothing but the nightmare of a terrible past.

Each man woke up slowly, gently, from the realm of dreams and felt that a miracle had taken place. They felt their bodies warmed and their souls suffused with an indescribable joy. Even the pale faces of the prisoners shone with a strange light, almost of delight.

In a gruff voice, trying to threaten him, Scurtu called Vasile. Hadn’t he disobeyed orders? He had burned the cross while his chief was sleeping! No. The cross was still there, lying like a dead body, with outstretched arms, and near the heavy wood Vasile was kneeling, in the snow, his hands joined in prayer, gazing at the rising sun.

And Scurtu, too, made a sign of the cross.

“Vasile,” he called, “Vasile, what do you see, tell me, what do you see in the rising sun?”

Vasile turned to him with ecstatic eyes, but he did not answer.

And Scurtu never learned what vision Vasile saw as he gazed at the rising sun.

1. A well with a long perch or pole.
2. Doina—A Rumanian popular song, a song of sorrow, nostalgia and sadness.