WOUNDED AND PARALYSED
Towards winter we were moved to a place called Zelenoye Polie. There
I was placed in command of twelve stretcher-bearers and served in the
capacity of medical assistant for six weeks, during which I had charge
of the sending of men who were ill to the hospital and of granting a
few days’ rest from duty to those who needed it.
Our positions ran through an abandoned country estate. The house lay
between the lines. We were on the top of the hill, while the Germans
occupied the low ground. We could, therefore, observe their movements
and they, in turn, could watch us. If any on either side raised his
head he became the mark of some sniper.
It was in this place that our men fell victims to a superior officer’s
treason. There had been plenty of rumours in the trenches of pro-German
officials in the army and at Court. We had our suspicions, too, and now
they were confirmed in a shocking manner.
General Walter paid a visit to the front line. He was known to be of
German blood, and his harsh treatment of the soldiers won for him the
cordial hatred of the rank and file. The General, accompanied by a
considerable suite of officers and men, exposed himself completely on
his tour of inspection of our trenches without attracting a single
enemy bullet! It was unthinkable to us who had to crawl on our bellies
to obtain some water. And here was this General in open view of the
enemy and yet they preserved this strange silence.
The General acted in an odd fashion. He would stop at points where the
barbed wire was torn open or where the fortifications were weak and
wipe his face with his handkerchief. There was a general murmur among
the men. The word “treason!” was uttered by many lips in suppressed
tones. The officers were indignant and called the General’s attention
to the unnecessary danger to which he exposed himself. But the General
ignored their warnings, remarking, “Nitchevo!” (That’s nothing).
The discipline was so rigorous that no one dared to argue the matter
with the General. The officers cursed when he left. The men muttered:
“He is selling us to the enemy!”
Half an hour after his departure the Germans opened a tremendous
fire. It was particularly directed against those points at which the
General had stopped, reducing their faulty defences to ruins. We
thought at first that the enemy intended to launch an offensive, but
our expectations were not realized. He merely continued his violent
bombardment, wounding and burying alive hundreds of men. The cries of
the men were such that the work of rescue could not be delayed. While
the shelling was still going on I took charge and dressed some hundred
and fifty wounds. If General Walter had appeared in our midst at that
moment the men would never have let him get away alive, so intense was
their feeling.
For two weeks we worked at the reconstruction of our demolished
trenches and altogether extracted about five hundred corpses. I was
recommended for and received a gold medal of the 2nd Degree for “saving
wounded from the trenches under violent fire.” Usually a medical
assistant received a medal of the 4th Degree, but I was given one of
the 2nd Degree because of the special conditions under which I had done
my work.
We were then relieved for a month and sent ten miles to the rear, to
the village of Senky, on a stream called Uzlianka. An artillery base
was located there, and when we finally reached our destination, our
life was easier. But getting there was no easy task, for the road was
in a frightful condition. We were utterly exhausted, and most of us
fell asleep without even eating the supper that had been prepared for
us.
There was no work for a medical assistant in the rear, and besides my
arm had fully recovered, so I applied to the Commander for permission
to return to the ranks. He granted it, promoting me to the rank of
Corporal, which placed me in charge of eleven men.
Here I received two letters, one from Yasha, in reply to mine, written
from Yakutsk, in which I spoke of returning to him at the conclusion
of the war. I sent a letter in answer to his repeating my promise, on
condition that he would change his behaviour towards me and treat me
with consideration and love. The other letter was from home. My mother
wanted me to come back, telling me of her hardships and sufferings.
It was October. This month, spent at the artillery base, was a merry
one. We were billeted in the village huts, and engaged almost daily in
sports and games. It was here that I was first taught how to sign my
name and copy the alphabet. I had learned to read previously, Yasha
having been my first teacher. The literature that was allowed to
circulate at the front was largely made up of lurid detective stories,
and the name of “Nick Carter” was not unfamiliar even to me.
There were other amusements, also. I remember one day, during a
downpour of rain, I sought shelter in a barn, where I found about forty
officers and men, who were also sheltering there from the rain. The
owner of the barn, a middle-aged _baba_, was there with her cow. I
was in a mischievous mood and began to flirt with her, to the general
merriment of the men. I paid her some flattering compliments and
declared that she had captivated me. The woman did not recognize my
sex and professed to be insulted. Encouraged by the uproar of the men,
I persisted in my advances, and finally made an attempt to kiss her.
The _baba_, infuriated by the laughter of the soldiers, seized a large
piece of firewood, and with curses threatened me and the men.
“Get out of here, you tormentors of a poor _baba_!” she cried.
I did not want to provoke a fight and cried to her:
“Why, you foolish woman, I am a peasant girl myself.”
This only further inflamed our hostess. She took it for more ridicule
and became more menacing. The officers and soldiers interfered, trying
to persuade her of the truth of my words, as none of us wanted to be
put out into the rain. However, it required more than words to convince
her, so I was compelled to unbutton my coat.
“Holy Jesus!” the woman crossed herself. “A _baba_, indeed.” And
immediately her heart softened, and her tone changed into one of
tenderness. She burst into tears. Her husband and son were in the
army, she told me, and she hadn’t heard from them for a long time. She
gathered me into her arms, and gave me food and some milk, inquiring
about my mother and mourning over her lot. We parted affectionately,
and she followed me with her blessings.
It was snowing when we returned to the front line. Our position was now
at Ferdinandovi Nos, between Lake Narotch and Baranovitchi. The first
night the Commander of the Company issued a call for thirty volunteers
to go scouting and investigate the strength and position of the enemy.
I was among the thirty.
We started out in single file, moving forward stealthily and as
noiselessly as possible. We passed by some woods, in which an enemy
patrol had hidden upon hearing the crackling of the snow beneath some
of our soldiers’ boots. We crawled on to the enemy trenches and lay
in front of his barbed wire. Our chests were flattened against the
snow-drifts. We were rather uneasy, as our presence seemed strangely
unnoticed. Our officer, Lieutenant Borbov, a former school teacher, but
a fighting man of the first order, suddenly caught a noise in our rear.
“There is something happening,” he whispered to us.
We strained our ears, but we had scarcely had time to look round when
we found ourselves surrounded by an enemy force, larger than our own.
It was too late to shoot. We resorted to our bayonets, and it was a
brief but savage fight.
I found myself confronted by a German, who towered far above me. There
was not an instant to lose. Life or death hung in the balance.
I rushed at the German before he had time to move and ran him through
the stomach with the bayonet. The bayonet stuck, and the man fell. A
stream of blood gushed forth. I made an effort to pull out the bayonet,
but failed. It was the first man that I had bayoneted; and it all
happened with lightning-speed.
I fled toward our trenches, pursued by a German, falling several times,
but always rising again and pressing on. Our wire entanglements were in
a zig-zag, and I had difficulty in finding our positions. My situation
was getting critical, when I discovered that I had some hand grenades
with me. I threw them at my pursuer, falling to the ground to avoid the
shock of the explosion, and at length I reached our trenches.
Only ten of our party of thirty returned. The Commander thanked me
personally, expressing his astonishment that I should have been able to
bayonet a German. Deep in my soul I also wondered.
The year 1915 was nearing its end. The winter was severe, and life in
the trenches almost unbearable. Death was a welcome visitor. Even more
welcome was a wound that enabled one to be sent to hospital. There
were many cases of men snowed under and frozen to death. There were
many more cases of frozen feet that had to be amputated. Our equipment
was getting very deficient. Our supply organization was already
breaking down. It was difficult to replace a worn pair of boots. Not
infrequently something went wrong in the kitchen, and we were forced to
suffer hunger as well as cold. But we were patient, like true children
of Mother Russia. It was dreadfully monotonous, this inactivity, this
mere holding of frozen ditches. We longed for battles, for one mighty
battle, to win the victory and end the war.
One bitter night I was detailed to a listening post with three men. My
boots were worn out. One has to keep absolutely still while on such
duty. A movement may mean death. So there we lay on the white ground,
exposed to the attacks of King Frost. He went about his work without
delay, and thoroughly. My right foot was undergoing strange sensations.
It began to freeze. I longed to sit up and rub it. But sitting up was
not to be thought of. Was that a noise? I ceased to trouble about my
foot; I had to strain all my nerves to catch that peculiar sound. Or
was it a mere freak of the wind? My foot grew numb. It was going to
sleep.
“Holy Mother, what’s to be done?” I thought to myself. “My right foot
is gone. The feet of the other three men are freezing, too. They just
whispered that to me. If only the Commander would relieve us now! But
the two hours are not yet up.”
Suddenly we perceived two figures in white crawling toward us, Germans
provided with appropriate costumes for a deadly mission. We fired, and
they replied. A bullet pierced my coat, just scratching the skin. Then
everything quieted down again; and we were soon relieved. I had barely
strength to reach my trench. There, I fell exhausted, crying, “My foot!
my foot!”
I was taken to the hospital, and there the horrible condition of
my foot was revealed. It was as white as snow, covered with frost.
The pains were agonizing, but nothing terrified me as much as the
physician’s talk of the probable necessity of amputating it. But I made
a stubborn fight, and I saved my right limb. The doctors soon put me on
the road to recovery, and by persistent care succeeded in restoring my
foot to its normal state.
The opening of the year 1916 found me still in hospital. Almost
immediately upon my discharge our Company was sent to the rear for a
month’s rest in Beloye, a village some distance behind the fighting
line. We were billeted with the peasants in their homes; and we enjoyed
the use of a bath-house and slept on the peasants’ ovens, in true
homely fashion. We even had the opportunity of seeing moving pictures,
the apparatus being carried from base to base on a motor belonging to
the Union of Zemstvos. We also established our own theatre and acted a
play, written by one of our artillery officers. There were two women
characters in the drama, and I was chosen for the leading rôle. The
other feminine rôle was played by a young officer. It was with great
reluctance that I consented to take the part, and only after the urgent
appeals of the Commander. I did not believe myself capable of acting,
and even the thunderous applause that I won on that occasion has not
changed my belief.
At Beloye many of the soldiers and officers were visited by their
wives. I made many acquaintances there and some fast friendships.
One of the latter was with the wife of a stretcher-bearer with whom I
had worked. She was a young, pretty and very lovable woman, and her
husband adored her. When our month’s rest was drawing to an end and the
order came for the women to leave, the stretcher-bearer borrowed the
Commander’s horses in order to drive his wife to the station. On his
way back he had an apoplectic stroke and died immediately. He received
a military funeral, and I made a wreath and placed it on his coffin.
As we lowered his coffin into the grave the thought inevitably
suggested itself to me whether I would be buried like this or my body
lost and blown to the winds in No Man’s Land. The same thought must
have passed through several minds.
Another friend, made at the same time, was the wife of Lieutenant
Bobrov, the former school teacher. Both of them helped me to learn
to write and improve my reading. The peasant women of the locality
were so poor and ignorant that I devoted part of my time to aiding
them. Many of them were suffering from minor ailments that were in
need of attention. One evening I was even called to attend a woman in
child-birth, this being my first experience in midwifery. Another time
I was asked to visit a very bad case of fever.
Then came the trenches again. Again intense cold, again unceasing
watchfulness and irritating inactivity. But the air was full of
expectation. As the winter drew to its close, rumours of a gigantic
spring offensive grew more and more insistent. Surely the war cannot
end without a general battle, the men argued. And when, towards the
end of February, we were again taken for a two-weeks’ rest, it became
clear that we were to be prepared for an offensive. We received new
outfits and equipment. On March the 5th the Commander of the Regiment
addressed us. He spoke of the coming battle and appealed to us to be
brave and win a great victory. He told us that the enemy’s defences
were very strong and that it would require a mighty effort to overcome
them.
Then we started for the front. The slush and mud were unimaginable. We
walked deep in water, mixed with ice. On the road we met many wounded
being carried to the hospital. We also passed by a cemetery where the
soldiers who had fallen in our lines were being buried in one huge
grave. We were kept in the rear for the night, as reserves, and were
told to await orders to-morrow to proceed to the trenches.
March the 6th began with an unprecedented bombardment on our side. The
Germans replied with equal violence, and the earth fairly shook. The
cannonade lasted all day. Then an order came for us to form ranks and
march into the trenches. We knew that it meant that we were to take
part in the offensive.
Lieutenant Bobrov came up to me unexpectedly with these words:
“Yashka, take this and deliver it to my wife after the attack. I
have had a presentiment for three days that I shall not survive this
battle.” He handed me a letter and a ring.
“But, Lieutenant,” I objected, though I knew that protestations were of
no avail at such a moment, “you are mistaken so. It will not happen.
Presentiments are deceiving.”
He grimly shook his head and pressed my hand.
“Not this one, Yashka,” he said.
We were in the trenches already, under a veritable hail of shells.
There were dead and dying in our midst. Waist-deep in water we
crouched, praying to God. Suddenly a gas wave came in our direction. It
caught some without their masks, and for them there was no escape. I,
myself, narrowly missed this horrible death. My lips contracted and my
eyes watered and burned for three weeks afterward.
The signal to advance was given, and we started, knee-deep in mud, for
the enemy. In places the pools reached above our waists. Shells and
bullets played havoc among us. Of those who fell wounded, many sank in
the mud and were drowned. The German fire was devastating. Our lines
grew thinner and thinner, and progress became so slow that our doom was
certain in the event of a further advance.
The order to retreat rang out. How can one describe the march back
through the inferno of No Man’s Land on that night of March 7th, 1916?
There were wounded men submerged all but their heads, calling piteously
for help. “Save me, for Christ’s sake!” came from every side. From the
trenches there went up a chorus of the same heartrending appeals. So
long as we were alive we could not remain deaf to the pleadings of our
comrades.
Fifty of us went out to do the work of rescue. Never before had I
worked in such harrowing, blood-curdling circumstances. One man was
wounded in the neck or face, and I had to grip him under the arms and
drag his body through the mud. Another had his side torn by a shell,
and it required many difficult manœuvres before I could extricate him.
Several sank so deep that my own strength was not sufficient to drag
them out.
Finally I broke down, just as I reached my trench with a burden. I
was so exhausted that all my bones were aching. The soldiers got some
drinking water, a very hard thing to get, and made some tea for me.
Somehow they obtained for me a dry overcoat and put me to sleep in a
sheltered corner. I slept about four hours, and then resumed my search
for wounded comrades.
All day the artillery boomed again, as violently as on the previous
day. At night, our ranks having been replenished with fresh drafts, we
climbed out again and rushed for the enemy. Again we suffered heavily,
but our operation this time was more successful. When the Germans saw
us pressing forward determinedly in their direction they came out for a
counter-attack. With bayonets fixed and a tremendous “Hurrah” we hurled
ourselves at them.
The Germans never did like the Russian bayonets. As a matter of fact,
they dreaded them more than any other arm of warfare, and so they broke
down and took to their heels. We pursued them into their trenches, and
there followed a fierce scrimmage. Many of the Germans raised their
hands in sign of surrender. They realized that we were in a fierce,
exasperated mood. Others fought to the end, and all this time German
machine guns swept their own trenches, where Teuton and Slav were mixed
in combat. Then we flung ourselves upon the machine gun positions.
Our regiment captured in that attack two thousand five hundred Germans
and thirty machine guns. I escaped with only a slight wound in the
right leg and did not leave the ranks. Elated by our victory over the
strong defences of the first line, we swept on toward the enemy’s
second line. His fire slackened considerably. A great triumph was in
prospect, as behind the weak second and third lines there was an open
stretch of undefended territory for many miles.
Our advance line was within seventy feet of the enemy’s trenches when
an order came from General Walter to halt and return to our positions.
It was a terrible shock to men and officers alike. Our Colonel talked
to the General on the field telephone, explaining to him the situation.
The General was obdurate. All of us were so incensed at this
treacherous order that, had any one of us taken command at the moment,
we should undoubtedly have won a great victory, as the breach in the
German defences was complete.
The conversation between the Colonel and the General ended in a
quarrel. The General had not, apparently, expected us to break through
the first German line. So many waves of Russian soldiers had beaten in
vain against it, and with such terrific losses. It became evident to
our men that it was the General’s treacherous design to have as many of
us slaughtered as possible.
But discipline was severe, and orders were orders. We had to go back.
We were so exhausted that our bodies welcomed a rest. In those two
days, the 7th and 8th of August, our ranks were refilled four times
with fresh drafts. Our casualties were enormous. The corpses lay thick
everywhere, like mushrooms after rain, and there were innumerable
wounded. One could not take a step in No Man’s Land without coming into
contact with the corpse of a Russian or a German. Bloody feet, hands,
sometimes heads, lay scattered in the mud.
That was the most terrible offensive in which I was engaged. It
has come down into history as the Battle of Postovy. We spent the
first night in the German trenches we had captured. It was a night
of unforgettable horrors. The darkness was impenetrable. The stench
was suffocating. The ground was full of mud-holes. Some of us sat on
corpses. Other rested their feet on dead men. One could not stretch a
hand without touching a lifeless body. We were hungry. We were cold.
Our flesh crept in the dreadful surroundings. I wanted to get up. My
hand sought support. It fell on the face of a corpse, stuck against the
wall. I screamed, slipped and fell. My fingers buried themselves in the
torn abdomen of a body.
I was seized with horror such as I had never experienced, and shrieked
hysterically. My cries were heard in the officers’ dugout, and a
man was sent with an electric torch to rescue Yashka, whom they had
supposed to be wounded. It was warm and comfortable in the dugout, as
it had previously been used by the enemy’s regimental staff. I was
given some tea, and little by little I recovered my self-control.
The entrance of the dugout was of course now facing the enemy. He
knew its exact position and concentrated his fire on it. Although
bomb-proof, it soon began to collapse under the rain of shells. Some
of these blocked the entrance almost completely with débris. Finally,
a shell penetrated the roof, putting out the light, killing five and
wounding several. I lay in a corner, buried under wreckage, soldiers
and officers, some of whom were wounded and others dead. The groans
were indescribable. As the screech of a new shell was heard overhead
I believed death to be close at hand. There was no question of making
an immediate effort to extricate myself and escape while the bombs
were still crashing into the hole. When with the dawn the bombardment
finally ceased, and I was saved, I could hardly believe the evidence of
my own senses that I was unhurt.
The following day I discovered the body of Lieutenant Bobrov. His
presentiment was right, after all. He was an intrepid fighter, and
a man of noble impulses. I fulfilled his wish, and had his ring and
letter sent through the physician to his wife. Our own Regiment had
two thousand wounded. And when the dead were gathered from the field
and carried out of the trenches, there were long, long, rows of them
stretched out in the sun awaiting eternal rest in the immense common
grave that was being dug for them in the rear.
With bowed heads and bleeding hearts we paid last homage to our
comrades. They had laid down their lives like true heroes, without
suspecting that they were being sacrificed to no purpose by a vile
traitor.
On March 10th, still suffering from the effects of my dreadful night
among the corpses, I was sent to the Divisional Hospital for a three
days’ rest. I was back in the trenches on the 14th, when another
advance was ordered. The German positions were not yet strongly
fortified, and we captured their first line without serious losses.
Then there was another few days’ respite, during which our ranks were
reformed.
Early in the morning of March 16th, after an ineffectual bombardment of
the enemy’s position by our artillery, the signal to go over the top
was given. We advanced in the face of a stubborn German fire, dashing
through No Man’s Land only to find the enemy’s wire defences intact.
There was nothing to do but retreat. It was while running back that a
bullet struck me in the right leg, shattering the bone. I fell. Within
a hundred feet of me ran the enemy’s first line. Bullets whizzed over
my head, pursuing my fleeing comrades.
I was not alone. Others were groaning not far from me. Some prayed for
death.... I grew thirsty. I had lost a great deal of blood. But I knew
it was useless to move. The sun rose in the east, only to be obscured
by grey clouds.
“Shall I be rescued?” I wondered. “Perhaps the enemy’s stretcher-bearer
will pick me up soon. But no, he just fired at that soldier yonder who
raised himself in an effort to move.”
I pressed myself closer to the ground. I seemed to hear voices coming
near. I held my breath in suspense.
“I am a German prisoner!” I thought. Then the voices died away, and
again my thirst tortured me.
“Holy Mother, when will help come? Or am I doomed to lie here
indefinitely till I fall into unconsciousness and die?... The sun is
already in mid-heaven. My comrades are having their soup and warm tea.
What would I not give for a glass of hot tea! The Germans are eating,
too. I can hear the clatter of their pans. Why, I can even smell
faintly the steam from their soup.”
“It is calm now. Only rarely a sniper’s bullet crosses the field....
Night, night, night.... How I wish for night! Certainly our men are not
going to let all of us perish here. Besides, they must have missed me
by now. They surely won’t let Yashka, dead or alive, lie in the field.
So there is hope.”
The thought of my comrades’ discovery of my absence gave me new
strength. The seconds seemed hours and the minutes days, but the
shadows arrived at last, creeping toward the side where the sun had
disappeared. Then came darkness and rescue was not long in coming. Our
brave stretcher-bearers, aided by some of the soldiers, were out on
their pious mission. Cautiously they moved nearer and nearer to the
German line, and finally picked me up. Yes, it was Yashka whom they
carried into our trenches.
My comrades were filled with rejoicing. “Yashka, alive! God speed you
to recovery, Yashka!” I could only reply in a whisper. They took me to
the first-aid station, cleansed my wound and dressed it. I suffered
much. Then I was sent on to Moscow, where I lay in the Ekaterina
Hospital, ward Number 20.
I was lonely in the hospital, where I spent nearly three months. The
other patients would have their visitors or receive parcels from home,
but nobody visited me, nobody sent anything to me. March, April, May
Came and went in the monotony of ward Number 20. Finally, one day in
the beginning of June, I was declared fit to return to the fighting
line. My regiment was just then being transferred to Lutzk front. On
June 20th I caught up with it. The welcome I received surpassed even
that of the previous year. Fruit and sweets were showered upon me. The
soldiers were in a happy mood. The Germans had just been driven back
at this sector by General Brusilov for a great many miles. The country
was interspersed with their evacuated positions. Here and there enemy
corpses were still unburied. Our men, though overjoyed, were worn out
by forced marches and the long pursuit.
It was midsummer, and the heat was prostrating. We marched on June
21st a distance of ten miles and stopped for rest. Many of our number
collapsed, and we felt too worn out to go on, but the Commander
implored us to keep up, promising a rest in the trenches. It was
thirteen miles to the front line, and we reached it on the same day.
As we marched along we observed on both sides of the road that crops
which had not been destroyed in the course of the fighting were
ripening. The fighting line ran near a village called Dubova Kortchma.
We found in its neighbourhood a country seat hastily abandoned by the
Germans. The estate was full of cattle, fowl, potatoes and other food.
That night we had a royal feast.
We occupied abandoned German trenches. It was not the time for rest.
The artillery opened fire early in the evening and boomed ceaselessly
throughout the night. It could mean nothing but an immediate attack.
We were not mistaken. At four in the morning we received word that the
Germans had left their positions and started for our side. At this
moment our beloved Commander, Grishaninov, was struck to the ground.
He was wounded. We attended to him promptly and despatched him to the
rear. There was no time to waste. We met the advancing Germans with
repeated volleys, and when they approached our positions we climbed out
and charged them with fixed bayonets.
Suddenly a terrific explosion deafened me, and I fell to the ground. A
German shell had come my way, a shell I shall never forget, as part of
it I still carry in my body.
I felt frightful pains in my back. I had been hit by a fragment at
the end of the spinal column. My agony lasted long enough to attract
a couple of soldiers. Then I became unconscious. They carried me
to a dressing station. The wound was so serious that the physician
in charge did not believe that I could survive. I was placed in an
ambulance and taken to Lutzk. I required electrical treatment, but the
Lutzk Hospitals were not supplied with the necessary apparatus. It was
decided to send me to Kiev. My condition, however, was so grave that
for three days the doctors considered it dangerous to move me.
In Kiev the stream of wounded was so great that I was compelled to
lie in the street on a stretcher for a couple of hours before I was
taken to hospital. I was informed, after an X-ray examination, that
a fragment of shell was imbedded in my body and asked if I wished an
operation to have it removed. I could not imagine living with a piece
of shell in my flesh, and so requested its removal. Whether because
of my condition or for some other reason, the surgeon finally decided
not to operate, and told me that I would have to be sent either to
Petrograd or to Moscow for treatment. As I was given the choice, I
decided on Moscow, because I had spent the spring months of the year in
the Ekaterina Hospital there.
The wound in the spine paralysed me to such an extent that I could not
move even a finger. I lay in the Moscow Hospital hovering between life
and death for some weeks, resembling a log more than a human body. Only
my mind was active and my heart full of pain.
Every day I was massaged, carried on a stretcher and bathed. Then the
physician would attend me, probing my wound with iodine, and treating
it with electricity, after which I was bathed again and my wound
dressed. This daily procedure was inconceivable torture, in spite of
the morphine injected into me. There was little peace in the ward in
which I was placed. All the beds were occupied by serious cases, and
the groans and moans must have reached to Heaven.
Four months I lay paralysed, never expecting to recover. My diet
consisted of milk and _kasha_, with which I was fed by an attendant. On
many a dreary day death would have been a welcome visitor. It seemed so
futile, so hopeless to remain alive in such a state, but the doctor,
who was a Jew, and very kind-hearted, would not give up hope. He
persisted in his daily treatment, praising my stoicism and encouraging
me with kind words. His faith was finally rewarded.
At the end of four months I began to feel life stirring once again
in my helpless body. My finger could move! What a joy that was! In a
few days I could turn my head a little and stretch my arm. It was a
wonderful sensation, this gradual resurrection of my lifeless members.
To be able to close my fingers after four months of paralysis! It
thrilled me. To be able to bend a knee that had been torpid so long! It
seemed like a miracle. And I offered thanks to God with all the fervour
that I could command.
One day a woman by the name of Daria Maximovna Vasilieva came to see
me. I searched my mind in vain for an acquaintance of that name as I
asked that she should be brought to my bed. But as I was perhaps the
only patient in the ward that had no visitors and received no parcels
it may be imagined how pleased I was. She introduced herself as the
mother of Stepan, of my Company. Of course, I knew Stepan well. He was
a student before the war and volunteered as a junior officer.
“Stepan has just written me,” Madame Vasilieva said, “begging me to
come and see you. ‘Go to the Ekaterina Hospital and visit our Yashka,’
he writes. ‘She is lonely there, and I want you to do for her as much
as you would do for me, for she saved my life once, and has been like
a mother to the boys here. She is a respectable, patriotic young woman
and my interest in her is simply that of a comrade, for she is a
soldier, and a brave and gallant soldier.’ He praised you so much, my
dear, that my heart went out to you. May God bless you.”
She brought me some delicacies, and we became friends immediately. I
told her all about her son and our life in the trenches. She wept and
wondered how I had borne it. Her affection for me grew so strong that
she used to visit me several times a week, although she lived on the
outskirts of the city. Her husband was assistant superintendent at a
factory and they occupied a small but comfortable dwelling in keeping
with their means. Daria Maximovna herself was a middle-aged woman
simply dressed and of distinguished appearance. She had a married
daughter, Tonetchka, and another son, a youth of about seventeen, who
was a student at the high-school.
My friend helped me to regain my spirits, and I made good progress
towards recovery. As I gradually regained full control of my muscles
and nerves, I used to tease the doctor sometimes:
“Well, doctor,” I would say to him, “I am going to war again.”
“No, no,” he would answer, “there will be no more war for you, my dear.”
I wondered whether I really would be able to return to the front. There
was that fragment of shell still in my body. The doctor would not
extract it. He advised me to wait until I had completely recovered and
have it removed at some future date by means of an abdominal operation,
as the fragment is lodged in the omentum. I have not yet had the
opportunity to undergo such an operation, and I still have that piece
of shell in my body. The slightest indigestion causes me to suffer from
it even now.
I had to learn to walk, as if I had never mastered that art before. I
was not successful at the first attempt. Having asked the doctor for a
pair of crutches I tried to stand up, but fell back weak and helpless
on the bed. The attendants, however, placed me in a wheel-chair and
took me out into the garden. This movement gave me great pleasure.
Once, in the absence of my attendant, I tried to stand up alone and
walk a step. It was very painful, but I maintained my balance, and
tears of joy came streaming down my cheeks. I was jubilant.
It was not till a week later, however, that I was permitted by the
doctor to walk a little, supported by the attendants. But I had taken
only ten steps, beaming with triumph and making every effort to
overcome my pain, when I collapsed and fainted. The nurses were alarmed
and called the doctor who told them to be more cautious in the future.
I steadily improved, however, and a couple of weeks later I was able to
walk. Naturally I did not feel sure of my legs at first; they trembled
and seemed very weak. Gradually they regained their former strength
and at the end of six months spent in the hospital I was again in
possession of all my faculties.