One day I ask the Cuirassier why he has no markings on his shoulder
straps. He coughs, blushes, then unbuttons one and turns it back to
show a large N. surmounted by an Imperial crown embroidered in blood
red.
“The Czar was our Colonel, Fräulein,” he says, in the horrified accents
usually reserved for the mention of the Prince of Darkness.
The fact does not seem to me so awful. I hide a smile.
“Many of the men tore the straps off their uniforms before they would
go on active service,” he says seriously.