Suddenly, Emperor Franz Joseph’s eyes were on Piotr Niewiadomski. He was observing him from a cross attached to the red-and-white ribbon on the gendarme’s tunic, commemorating the sixtieth anniversary of his coronation. A golden bust of the Emperor, encircled by a wreath, was mounted at the point where the arms of the cross met, for God and the Emperor always accompany one another. Franz Joseph’s cold, metallic eyes pierced Piotr’s tunic and his sweaty shirt, penetrating into his very conscience. Anyone failing to voluntarily obey the Emperor’s call from the cross at such a time would forgo the pardon of Jesus Christ himself on the day of judgement.
Piotr had appeared in court twice in his life. On both occasions as a witness, in cases of theft on the railway. He swore on the crucifix which stood between two gleaming candles on a green table. The judge, wearing a long black cassock and a cap resembling a priest’s beret, pronounced the sentence: “In the name of His Imperial Majesty…” Then everyone had to rise, as in church during Holy Mass. The judge and the whole bench stood up, the gendarmes stood up, the accused and the witnesses stood up, the guilty and the innocent stood up. But they did not have to kneel. Above the green table, directly above the crucifix, there hung an enormous portrait of the Emperor.
Piotr finished his cigarette, and noticed that he had thrown the Imperial eagle to the ground together with the butt. The eagle was printed on the cigarette paper, for they were Imperial cigarettes.
“Everything in this world belongs to the Emperor. Or to God,” thought Piotr. The Prut and the Czeremosz, the Carpathians and the cows, dogs and people belong to God. But the railway, all the rolling stock and the locomotives, the signal boxes and the level-crossing barriers, even every scrap of rusty wire, even a rotten sleeper, all is the Emperor’s property. Anyone stealing a railway sleeper harms the Emperor and an Imperial gendarme places him under Imperial arrest. He has the right! The most important thing in the world is, of course, money. And whose money is it? It belongs to him whose head is engraved on it. The Emperor gives people money, just as God gives them life. Both of these are merely on loan. The Emperor has different interests from those of God, which means he has the right to take someone’s life, borrowed as it is from God.
“Well,” said Niewiadomski out loud, “then I’ll join up.”
But the gendarme had shouldered his rifle again, donned his helmet and fixed the black regulation chin-strap.
“You’ve nothing to fear. They’ll take you in any case—they’re taking everybody, but I reckon the whole thing will be over by Christmas.”
He said “by Christmas”, but he was convinced that the war would be over in four weeks.
Then he saluted and left. Piotr forgot that he was wearing an Imperial cap and he doffed it in civilian fashion. Bass jumped up again and started barking. Piotr silenced him with a kick. The wires twanged and the gendarme was now back on the other side of the track. His footsteps were soon lost in the silence.
The light blue sheet of paper rested in Piotr’s motionless hands like a holy image between the stiff fingers of a corpse. He was afraid of the writing, which he could not understand. As long as the gendarme had stood here the letters had been human, but now the devil was in them, scaring him. This sheet of paper, this dead writing, had power over a living person. His fate now depended on these plump black circles, these straight, slender strokes. To be rendered so helpless by letters of the alphabet, not even knowing what words they made! Looking at the word “punctually”, he imagined the word “arrest”. A dark cell, iron bars in the tiny window. He sensed the chain of letters binding his arms like the links of iron fetters. He could already see the red welts they made. Then something was aroused in him resembling a sense of freedom, which he ought to defend. He did not understand how a sheet of light blue paper could take it away from him. He despaired at his powerlessness in the face of an enemy that he could crumple in his hands and tear to pieces, that would not even offer any resistance.
Perhaps none of this was true? What if the gendarme had deceived him? How could a lifeless piece of paper have any power over a living person? Why were people so stupid as to give credence to pieces of paper? Suddenly, to his consternation, he realized that train tickets are mere pieces of paper too, yet of course people pay money for them. And money is only paper as well, especially the most valuable—ten- and twenty-crown notes, and woe betide someone who loses them! He himself had suffered torment all his life in order to get 10 paper crowns and 5 silver ones on the first of every month. So this was all the devil’s doing! What if somebody destroyed the call-up papers? At best, he would be cheating himself, not the devil. Until then, Piotr had thought that you were captured only when a living person stronger than you tied your hands, seized you by the neck and threw you to the ground. But a piece of paper? Today he knew that there were also invisible forces which can overpower you and take away your freedom. They exist somewhere else, but they know all about us and can determine everything to do with us, even sending us to death. Human intelligence and human will are of no avail, because those tiny black, lifeless letters are the ends of invisible threads running like telegraph wires all the way from Vienna and the Emperor himself. These words were written by the Emperor himself. That is obvious; otherwise they would not wield such power. So that’s how it is? So the Emperor knows about me? He knows that porter Piotr Niewiadomski, son of Wasylina, has lived in the municipality of Topory-Czernielica, in Śniatyn Province, on the Lwów–Czerniowce–Ickany line, and served Him for many years? So the Emperor knows me? He needs me, and so he is addressing me as “Mr”? “Mr Piotr Niewiadomski!” That sounds good!
Piotr imagined the Emperor sitting in his Chancellery in Vienna behind a big desk with gilt corners, writing letters to all the Hutsuls. The Messrs Hutsuls.
Night was now beginning to draw its shrouds over the Hutsul land and move its shining lights across the sky. Mist and haze were rising from both its rivers. Piotr stood up, gave a deep sigh, took the pot of raw potatoes and turned his back on the sky, the earth and the night that was closing in. He left Bass in the yard. He went inside and placed the potatoes on the hearth, where the fire had gone out. He didn’t feel like eating. He lay down on the bed with his boots on. Suddenly he gave a start. He went over to the door and turned the key in the lock. He had never done that. He lay down on the bed again, on his back. He was trying to see nothing and to think about nothing. There was much that he could see, however. So he shut his eyes. But that didn’t help either. Reality crept into his brain even through his closed eyelids, tormenting him with images. Piotr could see and feel the hands of gendarme Corporal Jan Durek touching him, the menacing hands of justice.
At that time of day the cows, having had their fill of green grass and flowers, were returning from the pastures. The solemn procession occasionally came to a standstill on the way, scratching their backs with their horns and wishing to dispose of the excessive burden that oppressed their udders. They lowed skywards, like steamers’ sirens. In this bovine chorus could be heard the primeval forces of life and vegetation, milk and maternity. The voices of the cattle were breaking, as though anticipating slaughter. In this plaintive call for relief, for relaxation, for sleep, Piotr Niewiadomski recognized the voice of his own soul. It was heavy and overburdened and it too was nourished by grass. It was now with difficulty digesting its fate, indigestible as raw meat.