How Two Czechs Died for their Country.
It was the New Year’s Eve, and very cold. We, the officers of a certain battalion of an unnamed Austrian regiment, composed of German soldiers, sat in the spacious living room of an Italian farm. There were things to eat on the table, requisitioned from the Italian population, their very last food: chestnuts, figs, apples, polenta and wine. Some thing was in the air; something heavy and depressive; it settled down on the thick clouds of smoke and on the faces of all present: No one cared to speak of it, yet everyone knew what it was—my friend F. and myself, the only Czechs in the company, best of all.
At noon that day the mail had come. When I got in shortly after from a drill, the orderly handed me several different Vienna newspapers, with an expression that indicated in addition to the usual servility something like malice. “You will be pleased, Herr Lieutenant, that we have one more enemy,” he says to me in German. “How is that,” I asked; “who is it this time?” “Just read and you will know all about it,” and clicking his heels he departed.
I run to my little room and pick up impatiently the “Fremdenblatt.” First page—nothing; second page—nothing. But the third: can I believe my own eyes? “Die Czechoslovakische Armee in Frankreich”—so runs the heavy headline, and underneath a whole column of comment; or rather of abuse and insults. I read hurriedly the whole article, and every expression of rage calls out a joyful smile. “Even though this event lacks all material significance, it cannot be denied that the moral significance will be considerable.” “I should say so,” escapes from my smiling lips, and I pick up the “Tagblatt.” Just then friend F. rushes in. “Did you read it?” “I am just reading it and feel as if I would like to dance with joy. But you look too excited. If the old man should see you, he would guess at once the reason.” “You are right; here even the walls have ears. Let us go out under the open skies, where we will be alone.”
There was no thought any more of hunger and fatigue. We tramped through snow drifts until dark. The joy of it, the enthusiasm. What are they saying in Prague? When B. returns from leave, he must tell us.
Now we were sitting in the big room feeling acutely the oppressive atmosphere. The others glanced at us every little while, as if they would want to read our innermost thoughts. “That is infamous,” started the captain, full of suppressed fury.
“Have you read it gentlemen?” A dozen heads began to nod, as if by command, and every face registered the utmost indignation. “I could not believe my own eyes; that the treacherous rabble should be capable of anything of that sort,” continued the captain. “They are not satisfied with the treason they committed in the Austrian army; they want to start an army of their own, and such an army! It is incredible,” and the indignant officer could not continue. The others now added their own comments, the choicest collection of cusswords and abuse, such as only an Austrian officer can command.
We two said nothing. At first perhaps the others looked upon it as natural, but their excitement grew, until one said: “Now there must be no more of this talk of different Austrian nationalities. A man can now be only one of two things: German or traitor.” “We have been the second for a long time,” said I to myself, but nudged F. to keep silent. Our silence got on their tempers. We would have been provoked to say something, if a new arrival had not caused an interruption.
It was the judge advocate-captain. The talk ceased, and the faces put on the stiff “official” expression. A few of the recently arrived officers introduced themselves to the captain, others were engaged in pulling up their collars and playing with their glasses. The silence was painful.
“It seems that I have broken in upon the gentlemen,” said the legal officer after a long pause. “Please go on with your conversation,” His pleasant face and the accent, indicating that he was not German, drew my attention to him. “We were just talking about the shamelessness of those Czechs,” said our captain. “I really don’t know what to call that any more. No doubt you read about it,” said our captain. “You mean the Czech army in France? Well, that should not be underestimated; it constitutes a moral factor, and the fact is that the Czechs are capable of anything.”
“I still cannot understand it,” continued our captain. “Now suppose I was captured by some chance, I would naturally be glad that I got out of it with a whole skin; especially if I knew, what would be my fate, if captured fighting against my own side. This must be merely a bluff, a French canard, don’t you think so,” and he looked at the others with confidence.
Twelve heads nodded in unison, but the judge advocate captain did not agree.
“In order to make you realize, gentlemen, of what these Czechs are capable, let me tell you a little incident from the victorious march of our armies after Kerensky’s defeat last summer.” And his face turned very sober.
“It was early in July; a clear and hot day. I was sitting in front of a hut which I promoted to my temporary palace of justice. I was listening to the guns of our division engaged in completing the discomfiture of the retreating enemy. So I sat an hour or two; you know, how it is. A man like me does not have much to occupy him at times. And the noise of the battle was receding. “I will have
*Translated from the "Ceskoslovenská Samostatnost," Paris, August 3, 1918.
