UNCLE JOZEF'S STORY
I WAS drafted in July, 1915, and sent with others to a Hungarian
training camp. We were not there long before we heard that we were to
go to the front. On the day of departure, Anka, to whom I am engaged,
came to the station with my mother. There were, of course, many other
women, all with flowers in their arms and all with eyes red from
weeping. For they did not want us to go to fight those who had done
us no harm. My father, who had always been a great patriot, could not
come, but he sent me these words which he had painstakingly copied from
our greatest poet:
"It is shameful when in misery to moan over our fate; he who by his
deeds appeases the wrath of Heaven, acts better. Not from a tearful
eye but from a diligent hand fresh hope will blossom. Thus even evil
may yet be changed to good."
Later this fell into the hands of a German, but he did not understand
it. I did.
It was hard to part. My mother, in the midst of her uncontrollable
sobs, whispered:
"Jozef, when the time comes, you know what you must do."
It was hard to part. At the end, Anka gave me some red and white
ribbon, the Czech and Slovak colors, which I tied around my rifle. It
did not remain there long, for when the Magyar captain in charge of our
battalion saw it, he swore savagely, and taking his saber, cut it off
and stamped it under his heels. Not satisfied, he deliberately hit me a
blow from which I suffered for many days. At the same time he muttered:
"Take care what you are about, you Slovak dog!"
My companions were as indignant as myself at the insult to our colors
to which we have every right. "If a time comes when we can revenge
ourselves, we'll not forget," we promised one another.
By this time we had all heard, somehow, of Czechs and Slovaks who
refused to fight against the Allies, declaring that they had not voted
for the War, and ought not to be compelled to fight; and of many
Czech and Slovak desertions. Just before we left, there was fiendish
rejoicing among the Austrian Germans and Magyars, because a Czech
regiment, intending to desert to the Russians, had been trapped, and
all the officers and every tenth private shot. The story did not
frighten us or make us less determined to surrender if opportunity
offered. Better to be shot, we told ourselves, than to serve those who
in victory would treat our people still worse than they had already
done.
We got to the front at Rovno and all that day were kept working without
a morsel to eat. We had just finished entrenching ourselves, when
Russian shrapnel blew over us.
Towards morning, I heard shouting. Soon after I saw a bearded Russian
with a long bayonet, standing over me. I tried to tell him I was a
friend, but he had no time to listen, for Austrian machine gun shot
began to come from the rear, and, with others, I was taken to a wood
not far away.
It was already full of prisoners. As soon as we came, the Austrian and
Magyar prisoners pitched into us, claiming that what had happened was
the fault of those "Czech and Slovak cowards." Even here, the Germans
and Austrians blustered and tried to order us about.
We were very hungry, but nothing was given us to eat until we reached
Rovno. Here we received a little, several of us sharing one bowl.
After that we were marched to Kiev, a distance between two hundred and
three hundred miles. We still had very little to eat, for Magyars and
Austrian Germans had not yet got over their notion of being superior
people and so entitled to more than we. When we complained, they even
beat us. One poor fellow who had grabbed a loaf of bread from a Magyar
who had two, was found next morning with his throat cut.
Our prison camp was at Darnica, near the city. It was just a big field
with some trees, surrounded by barb wire. I remained here about two
weeks when, because workmen were needed and because of Czecho-Slovak
efforts in Petrograd, we were allowed to volunteer for work on farms or
in ammunition factories.
I chose the latter and came to Kiev. I had not been in the city long,
before I heard that Czech and Slovak prisoners were being organized to
join a so-called Hussite legion which was made up of Czech and Slovak
residents of Russia, who had already rendered valuable assistance to
the Russians as scouts. The Russian authorities had been opposed to the
plan at first, not caring to encourage revolutionaries, even though not
Russian revolutionaries. However, in the end, a grudging consent was
given. I wished to join, but was not permitted to leave my work.
Then the Revolution came, and, as the prisoners were freed, the Czechs
and Slovaks flocked to their own colors, and I with them. If I live
forever I shall never forget how I felt when I found myself among my
own people, our red and white flag waving over us, and heard the band
play our "Kde domov muj."
When we had to swear our oath of loyalty to Francis Joseph before
leaving Austria-Hungary, all Czech and Slovak soldiers mumbled the
words. When we swore the oath of obedience to Prof. Masaryk, "the
little father," as we called him, who had come to Russia, we shouted
it so joyously and loudly that the people from around came to see what
all the noise was about.