The Way of the Cross (Doroshevich)/IV
IV
IN THE FOREST
IT is getting colder and colder.
The golden and rose and flame colours of sunset have played themselves out on the cloudless pale green sky.
On the left, over the forest, like a phantom, is seen the pale fine sickle of the new moon.
From the marsh and from the little river over which we pass comes an icy breath.
There are mists in the low-lying places.
Everywhere it becomes darker and darker.
The moon's sickle is getting all yellow, all clear, more and more full of light.
Stars are scattered about in the sky as on a winter night—so many there are.
In their light the sky appears darkly, darkly, blue.
And, as if enchanted, the dark black forest comes to life.
On the right, on the left, there, here, near at hand, in the depths, through the thicket of fine black branches gleams the red of large fires.
Pillars of sparks arise and float above.
It is as if fireworks were being let off in the forest.
The sweet scent of burning wood is in the air.
The farther we go into the forest the stronger is this scent, the oftener do we meet the fires.
And it seems as if we are not in the forest at all—but as if a kind of illuminated endless town were stretching itself out upon the road.
We stop the car—the forest is full of rustlings and noises.
Human sounds are heard—here and there an axe resounds, bonfires crackle.
I stop for a little and go into the forest.
I make my way through the branches—there is a hewn glade around which the thicket stands like a wall.
A covered cart, a camp-fire; all is quiet.
Nothing is heard save the champing of the horses, munching hay.
Around the fire in silence sits a family.
The first thing that meets the eye is the bare feet of the children almost into the fire.
—Good evening, good people!
The appearance of a man at night in the forest, coming from no one knows where, causes no surprise, no curiosity, does not even appear strange.
They don't even look round.
—What's this man come for?
They answer kindly and civilly:
—Good evening, sir!
—What are you doing in the forest? Why didn't you stay near the "point"?
—It's exposed there, sir, it's cold. It's warmer in the forest. Look at the children.
—Are they very ill?
—They get wet and cold, and then they die.
—The ground is as cold as iron. And they're barefoot.
The children of the refugees are their most precious possession. They grieve most of all for the children. But the children are almost without clothing.
The peasant men are warmly clad. Almost every one has a warm coat.
The women are all right. They're muffled up somehow.
But the children. . . .
For the children evidently there had been no previous provision.
At home, children are part of the general surroundings—something like dear domestic animals. And one thinks about them as much as one would about a cat.
—Why should one trouble about a child?
For the children nothing is made.
And the refugees' children die like flies.
—They lie with their stomachs to the fire, and their backs are as cold as ice. They turn their backs to the fire and their stomachs freeze.
And they die.
And the children sit there in silence, sticking out their little red hands and dirty bare legs almost into the fire, and listen to what is said about them.
—Inevitable death.
On the fire some food is being cooked in saucepans.
On the bonfire.
The saucepans are not made to hang over the fire.
They are the ordinary pots for cooking on a stove.
Not suitable for a nomad life!
Now we've got to the reason why dysentery is raging.
In order to cook potatoes, cabbage, porridge—they place the pot near the fire, turning first one side and then the other.
The food cannot get cooked through.
It is burnt at the sides, in the middle it remains raw.
They eat this mixture of half-burnt, half-raw food—and thence arises this terrible dysentery.
The woman picks up what looks like a bundle of rags lying near the fire, and from it comes suddenly a little whine.
—I suppose you haven't a little powder with you, sir? The baby is ill. It's taken a chill, and is ill.
—Did you show it to the people at the "point"?
—At one place they gave me some milk porridge. But it was no good. Haven't you any sort of powder for children?
I go on farther, through the thicket.
Another cut-down space, a little larger.
Three camp-fires in a row.
Several families are seated there.
And again, the sudden appearance of an unknown man does not call forth any curiosity.
The people are not interested in anything.
It's all the same to them.
Once more they give the courteous reply:
—Good evening, sir.
Much as I have gone about among the fugitives, amongst those suffering most severely, never have I heard anything but kind, polite, pitiful words.
—Father!—an old man sitting crouching over the fire squeaked rather than said:
—Father, haven't you any stomach drops? The pain's like a knife, father!
I go on farther.
A bonfire. Near it lies a man, immovable.
—What's the matter with him?
—Rheumatism, sir.
—But how can you let him lie on the ground? I ask, repeating the question of the village policeman not long before.
—At the fire, sir, he can warm himself. It's got into his jaws. He can't open his mouth. Can't eat, can't talk. Oh sir, haven't you something for rheumatism?
I go on farther still.
Again there is a man lying by the fire.
—What's the matter with him?
—Everything passes through him.
—Blood?
—That's it, sir. Blood.
The peasant lifts his head, and says sadly in a weak voice, with a deathly sadness,
—My blood is flowing out of me. It flows out. I'm cold inside me. All my blood is going out of me.
And calmly, just as if he were not there, the people around say:
—Yes, that's so, he passes blood. He's no strength left—and look at him! That's the sort of state he's in.
And there is a chorus:
—Oh sir, haven't you any sort of medicine with you?
—Sir! Pan! Master! Stop my blood from flowing away!
—Medicine! Medicine! Medicine! Haven't you any medicine?
And there are more and more campfires in the forest.
Here a dark strip, then again, as if it were a town—then again a dark strip.
About ten versts from Roslavl there is a red glow in the sky.
—A fire?
—And a large one.
The nearer we approach the brighter and clearer becomes the glare.
Only one thing is strange: the glare does not waver. It's not like the glare of a fire.
The glare becomes enormous.
It stands apparently right over the town.
—What is it? Roslavl on fire?
—And there . . .
What a wonderful picture!
We get to within three versts of Roslavl.
On the right, on the left, wherever you look, bonfires, bonfires, bonfires.
A whole sea of bonfires.
It is damp. The smoke settles downward.
It is impossible to breathe along the road for the smoke.
It stops the breathing, makes the eyes smart.
The lights of the relief cars cannot penetrate this thick smoke.
And all around in the smoke are crimson fires.
Showers of sparks fly about in the sky.
This great glare is the necessary outcome of all these camp-fires.
Possibly only in the times of the Tartar invasion were there such pictures.
All around in the forest is the unceasing chatter of some gigantic crowd.
Saws are creaking. As in an Old Believers' settlement in the woods when people are called to prayer with a wooden clapper is the sound of the axes, the axes ring soundingly in the night air upon the cold trees.
A sort of continuous forest-clearing.
And the whole shore of the River Oster is spread before us and below us in a bright opal smoke with purple spots in it.
And when we drive over the railway bridge, and see below the blue and red lights, and hear the whistle of the steam-engines, we involuntarily ask:
—Is this really the twentieth century?