Stone Upon Stone

by Wieslaw Mysliwski

  Three of us went, me, Birchtree, and Sad Man. No, that’s not right, Sad Man was dead by then. It must have been Rowan. Because Rowan liked going and carrying out verdicts. There aren’t any dances these days, he’d say, it’s good we at least get to take out some scumbag once in a while. His eye was straight as a pine tree. Whatever got in his sights – man, bird, hare – it was curtains for it. Except he didn’t like taking orders, and for him there were no ranks or officers.

  One time, after this one shoot-out he went missing. The guys went looking for his body, thinking he’d been killed and so he’d need burying. But they didn’t find him. We thought, maybe he’s been captured? But someone surely would have seen it. And it wasn’t like Rowan to get caught. He always carried a bullet in his breast pocket, he’d take it out whenever he had nothing else to do and roll it between his fingers or toss it in the palm of his hand till it got all shiny like gold. He’d laugh and say it was himself he was polishing it up for, just in case, that he wouldn’t let himself be caught. We started to think that maybe he’d been a spy. But Rowan a spy? In the end two men went off on bikes, because he had a wife and three kids and she needed to be told he’d died in action. They found her by the well, drawing water. But before they told her he was dead, just to be on the safe side they asked if she didn’t happen to know where he was. She got all flustered, she couldn’t tell who they were, and she started making stuff up, saying he’d been taken away to do forced labor, or he’d gone off after some hussy and left her with the children and the farm. It was too much for her on her own, she said. She even started to cry.

  The guys didn’t know what to say. But they heard someone threshing in the barn. So they asked who it was threshing. She said it was a relative, and she offered them a drink of sour milk in the house. The guys were no fools, they said sure, that would be nice, but first they’d go ask the relative if he knew anything. They open up the barn door, and it’s Rowan doing the threshing.

  “So you’re threshing, Rowan?” they say.

  “Like you see,” he says.

  “We thought you were dead, Rowan,” they say.

  “If I was dead I wouldn’t be threshing,” he says.

  “It wasn’t nice to run away from the unit like that, Rowan,” they say.

  “I didn’t run away,” he says. “I just came to do the threshing for the missus, who else is going to do it for her.”

  “Maybe you’re a spy, Rowan,” they say.

  “If I was a spy I’d have a farmhand. The farmhand would be threshing, and I’d be informing on you,” he says.

  “Get your things, we’re going, Rowan,” they say.

  “I’ll get my things when I’m done threshing,” he says. “I’ve got another couple dozen sheaves of wheat to get through. Oh, and these oats for the horse.”

  The men reached for their weapons, but Rowan whacked them on the head with the flail. Then he twisted their hands behind their back and took their guns away.

  “Tell them I’m alive. And that I’m not a spy. Now go on up to the house, the wife’ll give you a drink of milk. Then get the hell out of here. I’ll come of my own free will, there’s no way you’ll make me.”

  We went into the pub to have one drink. Rowan was disguised as a wagon driver, he was carrying a whip and wearing a sheepskin hat. Birchtree had stayed at the market, he was going to let us know when that bastard bailiff showed up. We didn’t want all three of us to be hanging around because it would have drawn attention. Plus, Rowan always had to have a drink when he was going to execute someone. He said it made his hand faster and his aim better, though he might not have been telling us everything. Actually, even when he wasn’t killing he was fond of a tipple, though he didn’t like to drink alone, and he always had to find himself someone that had some kind of problem, so he could act like a priest and find words of comfort for him. Because when you’ve got worries you have to have a drink, and at those times the comfort is surer as well.

  That was how it was when Sad Man joined the unit. Rowan took to him like he was his own brother. Sad Man had only just gotten married and he’d had to run off to the woods to fight, and leave his young wife all alone at home. That was why his code name was Sad Man. He was a tall, strapping lad with black wavy hair and thick eyebrows, his wife must have been good-looking too. Some of the men envied him that young wife, though he never spoke about her, but Rowan started in right away comforting him.

  “You’ll have plenty of time to be with her, brother. I found it hard too. Sometimes I couldn’t wait till nighttime. There were times I’d take her there in the fields, whether or not anyone was around. Sometimes people would even call and say hello to us. Now, when I go home sometimes I’ll chop wood for her, check the horse’s hooves to make sure it’s not lost a shoe, currycomb it, tell her what needs sowing where, or planting, and she’ll pull me to her, but I’ll say, there’s a war on, Waleria, we need to fight the enemy, let’s leave lovemaking till afterward. It might be nice to do it with a different woman. It’s basically the same, but a different one would always be a bit fatter or thinner, she’d make different noises. With your own woman the only thing you have in common is your worries. And it’s a good thing God provides them, because what else would you do together? Even if you’re not at loggerheads, the two of you, all you do is turn your back on each other at night, you even keep the quilt between you so you won’t get too hot. With your own woman, I’m telling you, brother, it’s like being with yourself. You or her, you’re one body, tired or not, bad or not. It’s better to just have a drink, the result’ll be the same. Also, we’ve already made three kids, do we really want a fourth? Who knows what would lie in its future. Maybe it’d be unhappy? You think I’d have joined the resistance if things had been different? The hell with that. I’m eaten alive by lice, I never get enough sleep, on top of that I could get killed. At home no one was chasing after me, no one came for me, I turned in my levies, hogs, earmarked cows. Windows always blacked out at night. Whatever they demanded, I never said a word. Even the military policeman said to me, Herr Sadziak, goot, goot. But I couldn’t keep it up any longer.”

  Rowan died in an attack on the prison in Oleszyce. And Sad Man didn’t let himself be comforted either. One night he took off to see how that young wife of his was doing all on her own. The boys advised him not to go, stay put, Sad Man. Rowan gave him the same advice, you want to know too much, brother, you might end up knowing what you shouldn’t. You’d be better off just getting drunk.

  It was a starry night. The dogs in the village knew him so only the occasional one barked in its sleep. Their dog had been shot by the military police during a search, a thief could have come and there wouldn’t have been anyone to bark at him. He knocked on the window and waited for her to get up and appear there like a glowing light in her pure white nightgown, and she wouldn’t believe it was him, she’d think he was a glowing light like her. Then she’d rush to the door and unlock it, and fall into his open arms. All around there’d be the smell of lilac from all the bushes that grew by the house.

  He knocked a second time, a little louder, but nothing seemed to be moving in the house and no one appeared in the window. He stood a while longer and listened and watched, then he tried the door. It was unlocked. He went in and said into the darkness, Christ be praised, he said, it’s me, are you there, Wandzia? But the only answer was a squawk from the brood hen in its basket under the table, because it probably thought someone was coming to take its little ones away.

  He managed to find a lamp and light it, and he looked around. His Wandzia was asleep in bed with someone else. They were sleeping so soundly that when he held the lamp right over them, neither of them so much as stirred. The quilt was kicked off and the two of them were naked as the day they were born. The man at least had enough modesty to be lying curled up on his side, he must have been cold, or it was because he wasn’t sleeping in his own bed. Sad Man recognized him as Felek, the head groomsman at his wedding. But her, she was lying belly u
p, her legs gaping wide, all crumpled and spattered, one breast one way and the other the other, the only thing she had on was the red bead necklace he’d bought her at a church fair when they were courting.

  On the table there were two bottles of moonshine, one completely empty, the other half finished, and slices of sausage and pickled cucumbers and bread that was cut like for an engagement party. They’d also made themselves scrambled eggs and they’d evidently both eaten from the same pan, because there were two spoons resting against it. And their clothes were scattered all around the room. Her skirt was all the way over by the stove, it might even have been that she made the scrambled eggs without her skirt on.

  He made the sign of the cross over them, pulled out his pistol, and shot her and then him right where they lay asleep. The cat mewed in the stove corner, so he shot the cat as well. Jesus was hanging over the bed with his heart on the outside, and he shot the heart. The chicks got out from under the brood hen, he stomped on the chicks and shot the hen. He shot out all the windows in the house. He shot all the pots and all the plates. He even shot at the water bucket. When he’d had his fill of shooting he sat down at the table and drank what they’d left him, then he sang a little. At my wedding they were breathless all, for my wedding party was an all-night ball, yes indeed, oh yes indeed, death was all around and pain was near, but I was smiling from ear to ear, and may the good Lord be with us here, yes indeed. Then he dragged Felek the groomsman’s body off the bed, he lay down in his place next to his dead wife and he shot himself as well.

  Rowan got up from the table to buy another drink, because for some reason Birchtree wasn’t giving us the signal, and it could have looked suspicious to sit there with empty glasses. The pub was crowded, everyone was drinking, so there must have been spies there as well. All of a sudden someone grabs me by the elbow.

  “Aren’t you the Pietruszkas’ kid?”

  I don’t look round, but the voice is somehow familiar.

  “What, you don’t know your own godfather?” He sits down in Rowan’s seat, and he’s pie-eyed. “You know, the Pietruszkas, that live past the co-op? You had storks on your barn. I mended your stove years back.”

  “Go away, you’re barking up the wrong tree.” The whole time I kept looking in the other direction. He turns around to the rest of the room, beats his chest, and says at the top of his voice:

  “This is my godson!” And he claps his hand on my shoulder. “Except he won’t own up to his godfather!”

  At this the whole place went quiet and I felt everyone staring at me in disapproval, what kind of louse would deny his own godfather.

  Rowan comes back with a half-bottle and says, who’s this? I say, I’ve no idea, some guy’s latched on to me, claims he’s my godfather.

  “What are you talking about, latched on to you, I’m your godfather! And you’re my godson, the Pietruszkas’ boy. Bring a drink for my godson!”

  I could hardly control myself inside, I didn’t know what to do. Finally I leaned forward and said in a friendly way:

  “Shut your trap. I’m not any Pietruszka, the name’s Eagle.” The other guy ups and yells:

  “What are you talking about, Eagle? You’re the Pietruszkas’ son, I carried you to the altar in these arms. Are you denying your own mother and father?”

  “I’m not denying anyone, but these are different times, understand?”

  He smashed his fist on the table so hard the glasses jumped.

  “I don’t care what times they are, you’re a Pietruszka! And I’m your godfather!”

  “If he’s your godfather, ask him if he ever bought you anything,” said Rowan, all riled up. “I bet you didn’t get squat from him! Just like mine! Nothing, ever! They’re all the damn same, those godfathers. Want me to slug him for you?”

  “Give it a rest. Let him be my godfather.” I even poured him a drink in my own glass, thinking he might calm down. But he got even more excited and started shouting again, blathering on about the Pietruszkas. I couldn’t take it anymore, I grabbed him by the neck like a goose and shouted in his face:

  “Eagle!” And I squeezed till his eyes almost popped out. A few folks jumped up from their tables, but Rowan blocked their way, watch it, he put his hand in his jacket and they sat back down.

  “Pietruszka, you two-faced bastard!” He could barely breathe, but he grabbed hold of my coat and clung on like a drowning man.

  “Eagle.” I was so mad I lost it, I squeezed harder and harder. The barmaid screamed and threatened to call the military police.

  “Smack him one. Let the godfather have it,” said Rowan, egging me on.

  At this moment Birchtree ran into the pub and signaled to let us know the bailiff guy was at the market.

  “Let go of me, godfather!” I shouted. But he wouldn’t. Without a second thought I punched him between the eyes. His nose started bleeding and those eyes of his went all cloudy.

  “Pietruszka,” he wheezed.

  “Eagle.” I whacked him again.

  “Don’t hit me. Don’t hit me any more. You can be Eagle.”

  I don’t know if God died, if he rose again from the dead, if any of that is true, but blessed eggs taste different than eggs that haven’t been blessed. And nobody’s going to tell me it only seems that way to me. Ordinarily I’m not that wild about eggs, but blessed eggs, I can eat ten of them and still keep going. I don’t need to even have them with bread, just a little salt, of course salt that’s also been blessed. Best of all is with horseradish sauce, that ought to be not just blessed but so strong it knocks your socks off.

  Mother would bake babkas for Easter. They were famous, those babkas of hers. The whole time before the next harvest there could be the worst shortage of flour, there could be no flour even to make the base for żurek, but when the harvest was done and the new flour was bolted she’d always set aside enough for her babkas, then the rest had to last as long as it could. And when she brought one of those babkas down from the attic, because that was where she kept them after they were baked, father and Michał and Antek and Stasiek would sit around the table like foxes round a henhouse, and their mouths would be watering as mother cut the babka. Me, I preferred blessed eggs even over babka. And usually we’d swap, I’d give someone my slice of babka and they’d give me their egg.

  If it wasn’t for the blessed eggs I could have done without Easter at all. Because what kind of holiday is it actually? It’s neither in wintertime nor in spring. Also, you never know when it’s going to fall. You have to look at the calendar every year to see where it’s marked. So you have to buy a new calendar every year if you want to know, like you couldn’t just get used to the same day once and for all. I was born on Good Friday, but I can’t say it was on Good Friday, because Good Friday is different each year. So maybe Jesus didn’t die and rise from the dead after all, if it’s a different time every year?

  I like Christmas better. It’s always in the same place. You don’t have to check. Besides which, the year is finishing, and there never was a year you’d want to keep. And I love carols. Way back, when we’d all sing carols together at home, the walls would ring. Then when you went down to the village to hear them singing in other houses, you felt like the Star of Bethlehem that appeared over the stable was about to come to earth. Here there was singing, there there was singing, there was singing at all the neighbors’ and at the edge of the village, and even far, far beyond.

  These days too, when Christmas Eve comes along I like to sing a little. Because carols you can sing on your own and it sometimes still seems that everyone’s singing along like in the old days. The one I like best is “God is born.” I still have some of my old voice, and when I take a good deep breath I can make the walls ring like before. The neighbors stop their own singing to listen to me. Quiet there, Szymek’s singing. On a frosty night they can hear me all the way at the end of the village. Even Michał’s all ears when I sing, like he wants it to go on forever.

  Sometimes I try and persuade him, if
you want I’ll teach you and then the two of us can sing together. Say after me, God is born. First the words, then later the tune. They’re not hard. God is God, obviously. Is born, you know that too. I was born, you were born. A dog is born, a cat, a foal, a calf. Anything that wants to live has to be born. Remember, in the spring we had chicks, they were born as well, except from eggs. We used to sing this one every Christmas. We’d sit around the table, it was a different table back then, me, you, father, mother, and Antek, Stasiek would be in mother’s arms. When mother was serving the food she’d always give him to you to hold, because he didn’t cry when you had him. One time he peed in your lap. God is born, that’s all there is to sing, don’t be afraid.

  Though when I was a young man I liked Easter too. In the fire brigade we’d always stand watch over Christ’s tomb on Good Friday. In our uniforms with all the straps, with our axes at our side, we’d compete whose uniform shone the brightest. The whole week leading up to it we spent polishing our helmets and boots. A helmet like that, the best way to clean it properly was first with ash, then spit, then cloth, and it would shine like a monstrance, when you wore it you looked like Saint George, or maybe another saint, I forget which one used to wear a helmet. For the boots the best thing was a mixture of soot and sour cream, then rabbit skin to give them a shine. Though beforehand you had to go all over the place to try and borrow boots from someone. Because none of the young men had tall boots, only the farmers had them, and then only the better-off ones. Four of us stood watch so we needed eight pairs for the changing of the guard, plus everyone had feet of different sizes, sometimes we had to go all the way to other villages looking for boots, and they were rarely a good fit for everyone. You often had to stand there in boots that were too small for you. They’d pinch and chafe, your legs would go numb up to your knees, and on top of that people would come to look at the tomb, so they’d be looking at us as well, and afterward there was no end of gossip in the village, so-and-so was standing crooked, so-and-so was rocking from side to side, so-and-so was blinking like you wouldn’t believe. But when it came to me they always said, he was standing straight as an arrow.