The Radetzky March (12 page)

The autumn was already well advanced. When he sat up in bed in the morning, the sun emerged like a blood-red orange on
the eastern rim of the sky. And when physical training began on the water meadow, in the wide greenish glade framed by blackish firs, the silvery mists rose clumsily, torn apart by the vehement, regular motions of the dark-blue uniforms. Pale and dismal, the sun then rose. Its matte silver, cool and alien, broke through the black branches. Frosty shudders passed like a cruel comb over the russet skins of the horses, and their whinnying emerged from the nearby glade—painful cries for home and stable. The soldiers were doing “carbine exercises.” Carl Joseph could hardly wait to get back to the barracks. He dreaded the fifteen-minute break, which started punctually at ten, and the conversations with his fellow officers, who sometimes gathered in the nearby tavern to have a beer and wait for Colonel Kovacs. Even more awkward was the evening at the officers’ club. It would soon begin. Attendance was mandatory. Taps was fast approaching. The dark-blue jingling shadows of returning men flitted through the murky rectangle of the parade ground. Sergeant Reznicek was already stepping from his door, clutching his yellowly blinking lantern, and the buglers were gathering in the darkness. The yellow brass instruments shimmered against the dark shiny blue of the uniforms. From the stables came the drowsy whinnying of the horses. In the sky, the stars twinkled golden and silvery.

Someone knocked on the door. Carl Joseph did not stir. It’s his orderly; he’ll come in all the same. He’ll come in right away. His name is Onufrij. How long did it take to learn this name, Onufrij? Grandfather would have been familiar with this name!

Onufrij came in. Carl Joseph was pressing his forehead against the window. Behind him he heard the orderly clicking his heels. Today was Wednesday. Onufrij had leave. The light had to be switched on and a pass signed.

“Switch on the light!” Carl Joseph ordered without looking around. Across the square the men were still playing harmonicas.

Onufrij switched on the light. Carl Joseph heard the click of the switch on the door molding. Behind him the room lit up. But outside the window the rectangular darkness was still gaping, and across the square the cozy yellow light of the troop rooms was flickering. (Electric light was a privilege reserved for officers.)

“Where are you going tonight?” asked Carl Joseph, still gazing at the troop rooms.

“To see a girl,” said Onufrij. This was the first time the lieutenant had used the familiar form with him.

“What girl?” asked Carl Joseph.

“Katharina!” said Onufrij. His tone indicated that he was standing at attention.

“At ease!” Carl Joseph ordered. Onufrij audibly put his right foot in front of his left. Carl Joseph turned around. Before him stood Onufrij, big horse teeth shimmering between his full red lips. He could never stand at ease without smiling. “What does she look like, your Katharina?” asked Carl Joseph.

“Lieutenant, sir, if I may say so, big white breast!”

“Big white breast!” The lieutenant’s hands became hollows and he felt a cool memory of Kathi’s breasts. She was dead. Dead!

“The pass!” Carl Joseph ordered. Onufrij held out the pass. “Where is Katharina?” asked Carl Joseph.

“Maid, works for rich people,” replied Onufrij. “Big white breast!” he added happily.

“Let me see it!” said Carl Joseph. He took the pass, smoothed it, signed. “Go to Katharina!” said Carl Joseph. Onufrij once again clicked his heels. “Dismissed!” Carl Joseph ordered.

He switched off the light. He groped for his coat in the darkness. He stepped out into the corridor. The instant he shut the door downstairs, the buglers launched into the final part of taps. The stars flickered in the sky. The sentry at the gate presented arms. The gate closed behind Carl Joseph. The road shimmered silvery in the moonlight. The yellow lights of the town greeted him like fallen stars. His steps rang hard on the freshly frozen ground, autumnal and nocturnal.

In back of him he heard Onufrij’s boots. The lieutenant walked faster so his orderly would not catch up with him. But Onufrij likewise quickened his pace. And so, one behind the other, they hurried along the hard, lonesome, reverberating road. Plainly, Onufrij enjoyed the idea of overtaking his lieutenant. Carl Joseph stood still and waited. Onufrij loomed clearly in the moonlight. He seemed to be growing; he raised his head
against the stars as if drawing new strength for his encounter with his superior. His arms jerked in the same rhythm as his legs; it was as if his hands were treading air. Three paces ahead of Carl Joseph he halted, flinging his chest out once more, with a dreadful bang of his boot heels, and his hand saluted with five consolidated fingers. Flustered, Carl Joseph smiled. Anyone else, he mused, would have found something nice to say. It was touching the way Onufrij followed him. He had never really looked at him closely. So long as Carl Joseph had failed to recall his name, it had also been impossible to see his face. It was as if he had had a different orderly every day. Other officers talked about their orderlies with meticulous expertise, the way they talked about girls, clothes, favorite dishes, and horses. But whenever conversation turned to servants, Carl Joseph thought about old Jacques at home—old Jacques, who had even served Carl Joseph’s grandfather. Aside from old Jacques, there was no other servant in the world! Now Onufrij stood in front of him on the moonlit highway, with a tremendously pumped-up chest, glittering buttons, and boots polished like mirrors, his broad face convulsively suppressing his glee at running into the lieutenant. “Stand! At ease!” said Carl Joseph.

He would have liked to say something pleasant. Grandfather would have said something pleasant to Jacques. Onufrij loudly put his right foot in front of his left. His chest remained pumped up; the order had no effect.

“Stand comfortably,” said Carl Joseph, a bit sad and impatient.

“Sir, I
am
standing comfortably,” replied Onufrij.

“Does she live far from here, your girl?” asked Carl Joseph.

“Lieutenant, sir, not far, an hour’s march!”

No, it was not working. Carl Joseph was tongue-tied. He was choking on some kind of unknown affection. He could not deal with orderlies. Whom
could
he deal with? His helplessness ran deep; he was tongue-tied even with his fellow officers. Why did they all start whispering whenever he left them or was about to join them? Why did he sit a horse so badly? Ah, he knew himself. As if watching himself in a mirror, he could see the figure he cut; it was no use pretending. The other officers
whispered behind his back. He understood their answers only after they were explained to him, and even then he could not laugh: especially then! Yet Colonel Kovacs really liked him. And his record was certainly excellent. He lived in his grandfather’s shadow. That was it! He was the grandson of the Hero of Solferino, the only grandson. He constantly felt his grandfather’s dark enigmatic gaze on the back of his neck. He was the grandson of the Hero of Solferino!

For a couple of minutes, Carl Joseph and his orderly, Onufrij, stood facing each other silently on the milky, shimmering highway. The hush and the moonlight lengthened the minutes. Onufrij did not stir. He stood like a monument, all aglow in the silvery moonlight. Suddenly Carl Joseph turned and began to march. Onufrij followed exactly three paces behind him. Carl Joseph heard the regular banging of the heavy boots and the iron ringing of the spurs. It was allegiance itself following him. Every bang of the boots was like a terse stamped repeat of an orderly’s oath of allegiance. Carl Joseph was afraid to turn around. He wished that this dead-straight highway would suddenly branch off into an unexpected, unknown side road, offering escape from Onufrij’s obstinate officiousness. The orderly followed him in step. The lieutenant tried to keep pace with the boots in back of him. He was afraid of disappointing Onufrij by heedlessly changing pace. Onufrij’s allegiance lay in those reliably tramping boots. And every single bang stirred Carl Joseph anew. It was as if a clumsy man behind him were trying to knock on his master’s heart with heavy soles—the helpless tenderness of a spurred and booted bear.

At last they reached the edge of town. Carl Joseph had thought of an apt phrase to say goodbye with. He turned and said, “Have fun, Onufrij!” And he swiftly cut into a side street. The orderly’s thank-you reached him only as a remote echo.

He had to take a detour. He reached the club ten minutes later. It was on the second floor of one of the finest mansions on the Old Ring. All windows, as on every evening, were pouring light upon the square, upon the promenade of the townsfolk. It was late; he had to thread his way adroitly through the dense swarms of burghers taking their constitutionals with their wives.
Day after day he endured the same unspeakable agony of emerging in jingly colorfulness among the dark civilians, encountering nosy, spiteful, or lustful looks, and finally plunging like a god into the bright entrance of the club. Today he quickly wound through the strollers. It took two minutes to get through the rather lengthy Promenade, a disgusting two minutes! He climbed the steps two at a time. Meet no one! You had to avoid meeting anyone on the stairs: bad omens. Warmth, light, and voices came toward him in the hallway.

He entered, he exchanged greetings. He looked for Colonel Kovacs in his usual corner. Every evening, the colonel played dominoes there, every evening with a different man. He was a domino enthusiast—perhaps out of an immoderate dread of cards. “I’ve never held a card in my hand,” he would say. It was not without malevolence that he pronounced the word
card;
and he would glance at his hands as if they held his sterling character. “Gentlemen,” he would sometimes add, “I advise you all to play dominoes. They are clean and they teach moderation.” And now and then he would lift up one of the many-eyed black-and-white dominoes like a magic instrument for freeing depraved cardplayers of their demon.

Tonight it was Captain Taittinger’s turn for domino duty. The colonel’s face cast a purple reflection on the rittmaster’s haggard, yellowish features. With a faint jingle, Carl Joseph halted in front of the colonel.

“Hi!” said the colonel without looking up from the dominoes. He was an easygoing man, that Colonel Kovacs. For years now, he had been cultivating a fatherly manner. And only once a month did he work himself up into an artificial rage that struck more fear in him than in the regiment. Any pretext would do. He yelled so loud that the barrack walls shook, as did the old trees around the water meadow. His purple face blanched down to the lips, and his riding crop, quivering and untiring, lashed against his boot shaft. He shrieked a torrent of gobbledygook in which only the ever-recurring and incoherent words, “in my regiment,” were softer than anything else. He would finally stop, for no reason, just as he had started, and leave the office, the club, the parade ground, or whatever setting he had chosen for
his thunderstorm. Yes, they all knew him, that Colonel Kovacs—a good egg! His outbursts were as regular and as reliable as the phases of the moon. Each time, Captain Taittinger, who, after already transferring twice in his career, had an accurate knowledge of officers, would assure everyone that there wasn’t a more harmless corporal in the entire army.

Colonel Kovacs finally looked up from the domino game and shook Trotta’s hand. “Dined already?” he asked. “Too bad,” he went on, his eyes melting into an enigmatic distance. “The schnitzel was excellent today.” And “Excellent!” he repeated a bit later. He was sorry that Trotta had missed the schnitzel. He would have gladly chewed a second one for the lieutenant—or at least watched it being eaten with gusto. “Well, have fun!” he eventually said, turning back to the dominoes.

The chaos was intense by now, and a comfortable seat was nowhere to be found. In the course of time, Captain Taittinger, who had been in charge of the mess hall since time immemorial and whose only passion was the consumption of pastries, had transformed the club into a replica of the pastry shop where he spent every afternoon. He could be viewed sitting there behind the glass door, as somber and static as a bizarrely uniformed advertising mannequin. He was the best regular customer in the pastry shop, and probably its hungriest. Without the slightest twitch in his careworn face, he would wolf down one plate of goodies after another, taking a sip of water from time to time, peering fixedly through the glass door and into the street, and nodding gravely whenever a passing soldier saluted him, and simply nothing appeared to be happening inside his big lean skull with its sparse hair. He was a gentle and very lazy officer. Among all his official functions, his only pleasant duty was his supervision of the officers’ mess: its kitchen, the cooks, the orderlies, the wine cellar. And his extensive correspondence with wine dealers and liqueur makers kept no fewer than two army clerks busy full-time. Over the years, he had managed to furnish the officers’ club exactly like his beloved pastry shop, placing dainty little tables in the corners and garbing the table lamps with reddish shades.

Carl Joseph glanced around. He was looking for a tolerable place to sit. Relative safety might be found between Reserve
Ensign Sir Bärenstein von Zaloga, a wealthy and recently knighted attorney, and Lieutenant Kindermann, a rosy man of German extraction. The ensign’s youthful rank was so inconsistent with his slight paunch and dignified age that he looked like a civilian in military disguise, and his face with its small coal-black moustache was off-putting because it lacked an utterly indispensable pince-nez. Emanating a dependable dignity in this officers’ club, he reminded Carl Joseph of a family doctor or an uncle. In these two rooms, he was the only one who sat truly, honestly, believably, while the others seemed to be hopping around on their chairs. Aside from his uniform, the only concession that Reserve Ensign Doctor Bärenstein made to the military was his monocle when on duty; for in civilian life he did indeed sport a pince-nez.

Lieutenant Kindermann was likewise more reassuring than the rest, no doubt about it. He consisted of a blond, rosy, transparent substance; one could almost have reached through him as through an airy haze in evening sunlight. Everything he said was airy and transparent and was breathed from his being without diminishing him. And there was something like a sunny smile in his earnest way of following the earnest conversations. A cheerful nonentity, he sat at the little table. “Hello there!” he squealed in his high voice, which Colonel Kovacs described as one of the wind instruments of the Prussian army. Reserve Ensign Bärenstein stood up appropriately but solemnly. “Good evening, Herr Lieutenant,” he said.