The Polish Dragoon

Her name was Yelena Podrova and she lived alone. The first snows had come early that year. She knew this would mean suffering. The villagers were unprepared for such an early onset of winter. The late crop of beets was ruined by frost and animal fodder was in short supply. It was going to be a ‘seven-coat winter’. Of course the war made things worse. Many of the men had gone to the army. Some came back, blind or crippled. It was said in the village that the French had entered Moscow. How could such a thing be possible? It must be a lie and besides, there were more pressing problems, like to how to eat this coming winter.

Her husband had gone for a soldier. She knew he was dead, had felt it the day of the great battle at Borodino. They had been married less than a year. She was already dressed in black when one of the ‘lucky’ ones had confirmed Fyodr’s death. He had meant it kindly, she knew, when he said Fyodr had died instantly, shot through the heart, but she was a true Russian and demanded the truth. She had listened impassively as the man wept and begged her not to make him tell. She knew there as something more and understood he was trying to protect her. In the end she let it lie and went away unsatisfied. Since that day she had lived the life of a Russian widow, kept herself to herself and seldom went into the village. She tended her garden, saw to her few pigs and chickens and went to Church on all the feast days.

She was still young. One man had come courting after a decent interval but she had refused him gently. Now she waited. What she was waiting for she truly did not know. There was only this feeling. It was said in the village that she had the ‘gift’. Sometimes she knew what was going to happen. It was never clear. She couldn’t tell fortunes; there were just some things she knew, intensely, viscerally. Her life was marked by a series of such signposts. She had known she would marry Fyodr; had known, too, that she would never see him again the day he left for the war. She had mourned him in her heart from that moment. There had been a letter, written by one of the professional letter-writers. She had taken it into the village and paid to hear it read. It was just like Fyodr, full of hearty cheer and optimism. She smiled at that.

Now it was nearly Christmas and the winter had set in hard. Her hut at the edge of the wood was sheltered from the worst of the weather but still there was a foot and more of snow on the roof and she had to dig her path clear every day. She made her way down to the river each morning and broke the ice to draw water. She was worried about her pigs and thought she might have to slaughter most of them. Perhaps she could trade some of the meat for salt to preserve the rest. She might even get some flour. Death would come to the village this winter, she knew. Sometimes she thought she could see his dark shadow hovering but it was never there when she looked directly. It was something glimpsed obliquely, from the corner of the eye: a feeling, perhaps, more than a presence, but she knew it was there nonetheless.

It was late afternoon and almost dark when she saw the body on the track. Even though she was some distance away she knew it wasn’t yet dead. She broke into a run, her feet slipping on the icy compacted snow of the pathway. It was a young man but he looked old as the prophets. His face was grey except for the tip of his nose, which was white with the telltale sign of frostbite. He was very thin and his blue cyanosed lips were drawn back to reveal strong white teeth though his gums were raw and bleeding. She stooped and pulled his wasted frame upright. She was strong, used to hard work, and the man’s emaciated state made it easy for her to lift him onto her back and carry him back to her hut.

Once inside she stripped off the tattered uniform he wore and wrapped him in three of her best blankets. They had been a wedding gift. She banked the fire and lay him down beside the hearth. Several of his toes were blackened by frostbite and she knew enough to know that she must amputate them if he was not to rot away with gangrene. She took her sharpest knife and performed the crude surgery quickly, efficiently. She cauterised the wounds with a heated steel and bandaged him with strips of clean linen torn from an old shirt of Fyodr’s. She poured herself some tea from the simmering samovar and sat down to wait. A sense of peace came over her. Now she knew what she had been waiting for.

The man was murmuring in his sleep. She didn’t recognise the language but she knew quite clearly that he was calling for his mother. She nodded to herself. That was as it should be. In extremity a man would always turn back to the one who bore him. It was as if they sought the safety of the womb. She understood this, she, whose womb was barren.

Time passed. She grew drowsy in the warmth of the hut and forced herself to stir. She heated some soup and trickled some of the warm, thick liquid into the man’s mouth, his head cushioned on her ample bosom. He coughed and spluttered and his eyes flew open in alarm as consciousness suddenly invaded the deep cocoon he had woven for himself when he lay down to die. His voice was harsh and guttural as though rusty from lack of use. She didn’t understand the words but she knew he asked a question and could guess its meaning. “Hush, hush now, you’re safe here. Everything’s all right, everything’s all right.” She crooned to him and made soothing noises. He seemed to understand for she felt his tension seep away and he gave her a weak smile before his eyes closed once more in sleep.

When morning came he was stronger and in pain from his ruined feet. His was voice was high and shrill as he pointed at the bandages. She mimed her surgery, explaining as best she could with exaggerated gestures the threat of gangrene. He looked puzzled until she held her nose and then he nodded grimly. He had obviously seen the effects of untreated frostbite. She helped him up and the blankets fell away. He was confused, embarrassed by his nakedness, not wanting her to see his shrivelled manhood. She tutted, a universal sound of dismissal, but handed him the blankets to cover himself and he managed a shy smile. She steered him to her low bed and tucked him in. Again she fed him soup, not too much, for his shrunken stomach couldn’t cope. She smiled as his head started to droop and he subsided back into sleep.

She gathered up the tattered clothing, staring hard at the tarnished buttons with their two-headed eagle. She knew, then, what he was. The long boots, soles worn through and bound with rags, the ragged dolman. She muttered to herself and crossed herself sketchily. This was the hated enemy, the ravisher of Mother Russia. Confusion seized her. She had known this all along; known it from the moment she saw him lying on the path. Why did she now feign surprise? She had seen enough of soldiers in recent times to know, too, that he was a cavalryman and stomach lurched at the knowledge. She wondered why.

Now her very being was quivering, like a hound at the leash. Here was the enemy, perhaps the very one who had taken her man. She could kill him easily – he was weak and could barely stay awake long enough to feed. Yet something else held her back. Here was a young man, vulnerable, sick, far from home. Some other instinct cried out within her to nurse and nurture. How could this done with hate?

She muttered to herself as she went about her chores. She heated water and bathed him. His eyes were wide with alarm as she stripped him of his blankets yet again but she carried on, her face impassive until he was clean to her satisfaction. He smiled his thanks when once more restored to decency and nodded his head emphatically. “Waldemar,” he said, indicating himself. “Waldemar Jasinski. Polski, Polski.” She nodded, but did not offer her own name. He tapped himself again, repeating “Waldemar” and looked at her so quizzically she felt she had to reply. “Podrova,” she said. “Podrova Yelena,” stating her patronymic first in Russian fashion. He smiled. “Yelena,” he said and she nodded briefly. “Da.”

She founded it both harder and easier now he had a name. Harder to hate, easier to nurse. Her patient was a person and, as the days passed and he grew stronger, they would sit together, puzzling out their languages until they could communicate after a fashion. They grew easy in each other’s company. She helped learn to walk again without the balance of his toes and gave him a pair of Fyodr’s old boots, stuffed with straw to help them fit. One day he seized her hand and covered it with kisses. “Thank you, Thank you.” There was more that she could not follow but sensed the gist. She smiled and, encouraged, he tried to hug her but she slid away. “Niet!” she said and he looked shamefaced. “Yelena,” he said and she heard the pleading in his voice. She turned away and hid within herself behind a frown.

The day came when she must slaughter the pigs. He took the long knife from her and went about the bloody business with practised ease. He was smiling at her but she saw only the sweep of his arm and the heard the meaty thud of the blade. In a flash, she saw the truth of her husband’s death. She knew, then, what she had to do.

He was strong, now. She thought perhaps that she should have killed him while she had the chance but something in her shied away from that. It was not fitting. She must use other means. Her seduction was easy, effortless. She simply locked her mind away and let her body remember. Afterwards his eyes were soft and shining with love. She slipped the paring knife between his ribs. “For Fyodr, “ she said, and he seemed to nod his understanding as his head fell forward onto her breast.