I said nothing. The water pipes churned with a low thud—still or again, I wasn’t sure—and I felt a heaviness settle over me.
“And you want to live like that, Janusz, in fear?”
You laughed, your confidence in place again. “I’m not afraid. We just need to mind our own business. Avoid risks, be smart. As long as we do that, we’ll be fine. Don’t you think?”
I shrugged, feeling defeated.
“Good.” You jumped up from the bed, newly energized. “I’m going to take a shower.” Slipping on a shirt and shorts, you disappeared into the corridor.
That week you started your job and I worked on my proposal, submitting it to the board after some help from the professor. Then all I could do was wait. And because the flat was small and my nervous energy overwhelming, I spent my days walking through the city. One morning I walked through Wola, past the blokowisko, toward the cemeteries. The largest was the Powązki. It had pruned elm trees and endless rows of graves with crosses, all cared for and dusted and attended to like sculptures in a museum. Next to it was the small Muslim cemetery for the Tatars that no one ever seemed to visit. It was the size of a classroom, with the graves beginning to disappear in the grass like an archaeological site in the making. And then there was the Jewish cemetery. It was large and deep, a rectangle with no visible end; no one could look inside. It was abandoned, gates locked forever. The only thing I could see was the army of giant poplars soaring above the wall that separated—protected—the city from this shard of history. I walked along that wall, its old red bricks covered in vines, and admired the sturdy trees swaying in the wind. I imagined nature taking its course on the other side, the little forest growing from the hearts of forsaken graves. From where I stood, they looked like the most beautiful trees in the city.
I walked on, passing the abandoned factories, where flocks of crows lingered and cawed with their chalky, swordlike beaks, throwing large shadows across the dusty plots. Crossing Wola and going toward the center of the city, I reached the square with the monument to the Ghetto Uprising. I shivered as I took in its size, the pain of the distorted faces carved into its facade. I quickened my pace along the large wide avenues. You could only cross every five hundred meters, and it made you feel both exposed and removed. I walked and walked, across the Feliks Dzierżyński Square, all the way to the center, then a little south toward the Palace of Culture and its gigantic spire that pierced the late-summer sky. Standing beneath it—Stalin’s gift to the city, its concrete knot, its biggest scar—I looked up, and my head began to spin. It was September, still warm, yet somehow the air already contained a hint of decay.
I walked home. The city had filled up again after the emptiness of summer. Students had returned for another year, workers had come back from their holidays. The queues for the shops swelled like bloody lips—deliveries had become so few and far between that the only way to get anything was to wait. The lines had started to occupy whole streets. I had to push through a queue for a grocery store, where women stood with empty baskets, trying to look over the heads of those in front to see what was happening. Sometimes they stood and talked, but mostly people kept to themselves, mumbling complaints, telling off those suspected of pushing in.
Pani Kolecka would go out every morning, early, and join the queues that seemed most promising, according to a rumor picked up by some acquaintance. She would walk the city, carrying shopping nets in her handbag at all times, and whenever she chanced to walk past a queue that seemed as if it might yield something—whether it was toilet paper or canned beans—she’d join and wait.
Most evenings Pani Kolecka came home empty-handed, tired. She’d sit at the table in the living room, her hands illuminated by a tiny lamp, using leftover cloth to make hats she’d sell in the queues. She’d smile at me when I got back from your place, night having fallen outside. “Waiting for nothing, queuing for a possibility, that’s what we’re all doing now,” she said, quietly, one night. Her eyes sparkled with sadness and irony. “There is no other currency than time. And it’s cheap.”
We were eating less, and fewer things. I often ate at the campus canteen, though not the meat. But sometimes we’d be lucky. Sometimes I’d come home and she’d be standing in the kitchen, the radio beside her playing Chopin, something fragrant cooking on the stove, most likely with cumin. She loved cumin.
“Come and eat, Ludzio,” she’d say, with a smile in her small eyes. “You must be hungry. Sit down and tell me about your day.”
One morning, while I was still waiting to hear from Professor Mielewicz, I found Pani Kolecka lying on her bed in the living room, a blanket pulled up to her chin. “It’s the standing,” she said, coughing. Her cough was dry and violent, like a complaint. It seemed strange that a small, fragile being could make such a sound. I prepared some tea for her, dissolved honey in it that she’d brought from the countryside where her sisters lived. But it didn’t help. The coughing continued. “I’m sorry,” she said, her eyes red with exhaustion. “I will need to get some medicine.”
That night the winds grew stronger, the trees in the courtyard moved against one another, air howling between their branches. I woke up and heard the coughing from the next room, sharp and uncontrolled, like a threat.
The next morning, I went to the pharmacy for Pani Kolecka. They didn’t have what she needed.
“We might get it in two weeks,” the pharmacist said, without a trace of emotion on his face. I tried another pharmacy farther away, and they told me the same. I walked back to the flat with anger collected at the bottom of my stomach, pulsing through my body.
“Don’t worry,” said Pani Kolecka. “I’ll be fine. I just need some rest.”
I made her some more tea and boiled some vegetables. I brought her food from the canteen, ruskie pierogi and pickled cabbage. But the cough continued. Its dry, cracking sound would stir me from sleep, accompany my nights. As if something was trying to tear up her body from the inside.
During those weeks, you and I would go to the university pool every now and then. It wasn’t far from the Old Town, tucked in below the ramparts of the faculty grounds. I remember its large reception hall and the strong smell of chlorine—how I liked that smell—and the cloakroom where we left our shoes in a shared cloth bag. In the changing rooms we undressed among other boys, drying themselves, joking around, unaware of their nudity or used to it like something that was a given—strong backs and thighs and asses, skin smooth and covered in drops like forest leaves after rain. But in a strange way that didn’t excite me. When we were naked like that, changing, showering among them, we weren’t really ourselves. We were lighter, without consequence. We took off our roles along with our clothes and only belonged to the anonymous world of bodies. And when we swam our rounds and I pushed through the water, I felt even lighter. It reminded me of our summer together, of the ease with which we’d floated across the lake. As I swam I dissolved in the water, and something came to me from the depths of my memory.
I was very young; Father had just left us, and Mother was so distraught I was afraid she’d die from grief. She stayed in her room all day. Her lips pale, her eyes red. I tried to cheer her up, to distract her with my picture books that I’d bring to her bed and read out loud. And one day she came out of her room, her face made up, lipstick on and eyes dark with kohl, and she took me outside and lifted me onto her bike. We rode all along our street and across the large empty park to the pool in the domed Centennial Hall. This is where she taught me. This is where we went into the water together, and she, my lifeline, held me while I wriggled my legs and arms, exhilarated and free. She taught me patiently to trust my body, to let myself float, to move on my own. For years we’d go together, even when I no longer needed her to hold me. I wanted her to see me, to be proud of me. To make each of us feel important to the other. So when the day came, some years later, when they found something in her lungs and I came home from school to find the flat empty, with only Granny crying on the couch, it never occurr
ed to me to go back to the pool. Not without her. It was as if that part of my life had died along with her, as if it could never return.
One night, after one of our swims at the pool, it was beginning to get dark outside. Coming out with our hair still wet, we could see the Wisła shimmering, the trees moving slowly in the wind. The air smelled fresh and moist. Summer still lingered, but already one could sense the cooler winds sweeping across the endless plains from Siberia, announcing the end of warmth. It was autumn’s gateway, that night.
We wandered down the slope of a little park and onto Dobra Street. It was the first time I’d seen you after you’d started work, and you told me that your boss liked you. That he’d already given you texts to read: books awaiting permission to be published. It was your job to examine them, to find criticism of the Party or anything unsuitable for the public. You seemed electrified, your eyes wide, your words sounding like they were meant for an audience.
I let you go on, unsure what to do with my anger, until you stopped your speech and looked at me.
“Have you nothing to say?” you asked, as if expecting praise.
I let silence rush in, hoping it would blur the reality of this moment. Our footsteps resonated in the dimly lit street. There was no one there except us. I held on to the stillness for as long as it would let me, for as long as I could.
“You should know by now that you will never impress me with your work,” I heard myself say. “That it will never bring us closer.” You looked as if you were about to say something. “Meanwhile,” I went on, unable to contain the bitterness, “the queues are becoming infinite. There is less and less to eat. And Pani Kolecka is ill. She’s coughing like a death-bound dog. They don’t even have the medicine for her.”
Your face lost its tension. It was your turn to be silent.
“I’m sorry,” you finally said, sounding reduced, speaking only to me again.
“I’m sorry too. I’m sorry to be living under this bloody system.”
Your brows furrowed, and you glanced behind us. “Don’t say things like that.” There was a hint of fear in your voice.
It gave me a strange satisfaction. “What else are we going to do? Let them do anything they please?”
You stopped, looking behind us again, grabbing me by the shoulders. “Work. Keep quiet.” You looked straight into me. “Don’t do anything stupid.” I avoided your eyes. “I mean it, Ludzio.” You shook me, as if trying to wake me up. “I told you we mustn’t take risks. You want to protest? What for? To end up in prison and to be a martyr for nothing?” I raised my eyes and looked at you, suddenly aware of us standing like this in the street, our faces so close. “There are ways to live a good life,” you went on, as if hearing my thoughts. “I’ll figure things out. Can’t you trust me?” Your eyes pleaded in a way I had never seen before. We heard the sound of boots clicking on the pavement.
“Janusz?” A cry came from the other side of the street. A girl was standing in the round spot of light streaming down from a streetlamp. “Is that you?”
You released me. “Hania!” Your face lit up.
She crossed the street, and you fell into each other’s arms. I saw her face on your shoulder, smiling for a moment with her eyes closed. My mind reeled. She opened her eyes and looked at me. It was like seeing a ghost—the pale, white skin, the intense, dark eyes. I’d never seen her up close, but I still recognized her. It was the girl I’d seen you with at the camp. She looked very stylish, in a trench coat and cowboy boots. But even more remarkable were her earrings: they were beaded and shone in all colors of the rainbow, like the tail of an exotic bird, and so long they almost touched her shoulders. I couldn’t take my eyes off them.
“Janusz, I haven’t seen you in ages,” she cried, adjusting her hair, making the earrings move along with her. “Where have you been all these weeks?” Her eyes fell on me. There was a pause in which she and I looked at each other, slightly embarrassed, until you said:
“Here, let me introduce my swimming colleague. Hania, this is Ludwik.”
We shook hands. Hers was soft and white like a dove.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said, sounding like she meant it, looking into my eyes for a moment before turning back to you. She put her hand on your arm.
“I’m going to see Rafał now—he lives just around the corner. Do you want to come?”
You glanced from her to me. She was entirely turned to you.
“I would like to, but—”
“You’re busy?” She raised her eyebrows. “C’mon, just for one drink. We’ve been saying how much we’ve missed you.”
I could see your fingers closing tight around the strap of your bag. You wore an expression I found impossible to read.
“I can’t tonight,” you finally said. “I’m sorry. Next time.”
She looked at you for a while, until a smile curled itself around her lips. “Fine. But no excuses for my birthday party. At the end of the month. You’re coming. Yes?”
You nodded. She kissed you goodbye and ran off, her boots beating on the concrete. We stood for a moment without speaking, the air strangely charged. You looked gloomy, worried even.
“Everything OK?” I asked.
You nodded, without looking at me. “All good. Let’s go.”
“Do you think she saw us?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.” Again your face was inscrutable.
We climbed a set of narrow stairs lined by a large stone wall. Behind it lay the nuns’ convent, their cloister with its orchards and grazing cows, and new residential blocks towering just above.
A group of boys in tight jeans came toward us, walking down the narrow passageway. One held a small, heavily made-up girl around the waist, while another, with a sharp face and gelled-back hair, looked you up and down with curious eyes. You noticed him, and your face seemed to harden; you looked away. We reached the top of the bridge and waited at the traffic lights. To our right lay the city, the neon lights of the tall buildings glistening, advertising clubs and restaurants, to our left the Wisła and the dark shore of Praga. I thought I could sense your restlessness. You looked at me from the side.
“What is it?” I said.
You looked ahead, at the red light. “I think it’s better if I spend tonight by myself.” You sounded careful, circumscribed. “Just tonight.”
“Why?”
“I need some time alone.”
I looked into your eyes, trying to discern what this meant. Your look was steady.
“I’m just tired,” you said. “I need to rest. All right? I’ll see you soon.”
“Is it because of Hania?”
You shook your head, not looking at me. “Don’t overthink it.”
The light turned green, and a tram appeared. We said good night, our hands in our pockets, and then you crossed over without turning back.
Three days passed and no message came. Rather than drive myself crazy, I caught a rattling tram to the other side of the river. You opened the door shirtless, holding a razor in your hand. You seemed surprised to see me but not displeased. You invited me in. There was a water bowl on your desk and a little mirror propped against a pile of books.
“I’m just getting ready to go out,” you said, sitting down and running a hand over your stubble. “A drink. My boss invited us to his place.” You tried to sound casual and threw me a glance as if to test my reaction. I was calm. You took up the razor and looked at yourself again. “Can we see each other tomorrow? At the pool?”
I nodded, relieved to have some certainty. “Sure. Have fun tonight.” I managed to say this without sounding sarcastic. You stood and kissed me hard on the mouth, razor still in hand.
I went to a student café near campus and prepared for my interview with the board that would take place if I passed into the next round. I’d come to like my topic on Baldwin’s analysis of racism in America. Professor Mielewicz had praised it too, saying I’d be the first in the country to examine it. It mad
e me think that throughout my life, up to this point, everything I’d done had felt either irrelevant or replaceable. Here, for the first time, was something wholly mine, something that needed me in order to exist. I was expecting news from the professor any day now. I tried to remain hopeful.
When the café closed, I took my things and made my way home. It was a balmy night, maybe the last one of the year, and so I decided to walk, taking the long route. I walked toward the Old Town, where the lights had been switched off for the night. Couples sat kissing at the foot of King Zygmunt’s Column or leaning against the walls of the reconstructed castle. I walked through the little narrow streets, past the cathedral, and out onto the old market square, which was almost empty except for some tourists taking photos of the restored baroque facades. The sky was a square, drawn by the high roofs of those houses. And then I heard the faint but steady sound of a saxophone, with a bass chasing after it. The melody drifted through the air, little more than a whisper of jazz.
I walked toward the sound on the other side of the square. The music seemed to come from a darkened building with all its curtains drawn. One ground-level window was illuminated. I crouched and looked down into a vaulted cave filled with a buzzing crowd, smoke gliding from their faces toward the ceiling, glasses held to their lips. A band was playing just below the window. I recognized the composition as one by Komeda, maybe from the soundtrack for Knife in the Water—tempting, chaotic, then languid. My mind listened to the story of the notes as my eyes wandered the crowd until they landed on you.
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