“And what about hell? Are you not afraid of hell?” he exclaimed in a bitter tone.
“What’s hell to me, father, after I’ve been on earth.”
His head drooped, he folded his hands across his stomach and froze like that without a word. I began to regret getting drawn into the discussion. Stach Sobieraj was supposed to give me a hand bringing in the potatoes. In return I was going to lend him my horse the next day. What could I tell him now? That I’d been at the priest’s all this time? What, were you making confession? No. Then what on earth were you up to?
He said in a voice that seemed to emerge from his thoughts:
“I knew you’d come one of these days. If not of your own free will, then because of the tomb. You have no idea how much I was looking forward to this moment. How long is it since I came to this parish. Half a century it’ll be. I can still remember you running around in short pants. Your hair was the color of flax. And I seem to remember that for the longest time you wouldn’t grow.”
“That wasn’t me. Maybe you’re thinking of Michał, father. Michał didn’t grow for a long time.”
“Come on, don’t try to wriggle out of it. I remember I used to make fun of you, so when do you finally plan to start growing, Pietruszka? See, Bąk’s already getting a mustache. And Sobieraj’s going to start chasing after the young ladies any day now. Now what’s the seventh commandment, Pietruszka? Do you know or don’t you? Tell him, Kasiński. Because Kasiński couldn’t contain himself, he knew. That Kasiński, he always knew everything. That’s why he rose so high. I can’t remember if the two of you sat side by side at the same desk or if he was right in front of you. But when it came to picking apples from my orchard, I remember, the two of you went together. Except you never wanted to even repeat after Kasiński. You’d stand there like a post, your eyes on the floor. By the end the whole class was prompting you, but you, it was like you’d set your mind on not knowing. And when Franciszek the sacristan and my dog Flaps caught you in the apple tree, remember? Kasiński got away, and you were left in the tree and you wouldn’t come down. Flaps was barking at you, Franciszek was shouting, get down this minute, you little monkey! In the end I heard the ruckus in the orchard and came out, I pleaded with you, threatened, come down, Pietruszka. Come down or in school I’ll make you recite the ten commandments and the seven deadly sins and the six articles of faith. And you’ll have to stand in the middle of the classroom, not just say them from your seat. Come down. In the end Franciszek had to go get a ladder and bring you down by force. He was so mad he was all set to thrash you then and there, he’d already taken his belt off, but I stopped him:
‘ “Beating’s wrong, Franciszek. He’ll come to confession tomorrow morning and confess his sins. You will come, won’t you, Pietruszka?’
‘ “He needs a good hiding,’ he said, angry at me as well. ‘He’ll come to confession and you’ll absolve him, father, is that it? He ought to go picking apples at Macisz’s place, that’s no church orchard! Macisz never so much as shows his face in church! On top of that he goes around saying there’s no God, that everything came from water. Heretic. See, the apple tree was bent over it had so much fruit, look at it now. And all you’ll do is give him three Hail Marys to say, for all those apples. You punish people more when they only sin in their thoughts. Twelve or more – and litanies, not Hail Marys. One litany is like five Hail Marys. What’s a Hail Mary? Hail Mary, Mother of God, that’s it. And sins in your thoughts are no sins at all, those people aren’t going to go stealing somebody else’s apples. You even make me bring apples to religious instruction, father. The last priest, Father Sierożyński, he had this oak ruler and he’d whack the little monsters on the hands till they swelled up and they weren’t even able to pick apples. But you, you tell me, go get a basketful of the raspberry apples by the fence there. I’ve got religious instruction tomorrow, let God be good to those little kids of mine if he can’t be good to everyone. And God is good, Franciszek is bad because he’s the one that has to chase after the little buggers. When one lot grows up, another bunch comes along, it never stops, your whole life chasing and minding. And they’re worse and worse behaved. Not one of them’s ever going to learn properly how to serve at mass. All they want to do is dress up in their surplices. But carrying the missal from left to right, for that they need a shove in the back from Franciszek, go on, now’s the moment. See, another broken branch.’
“I waited all morning for you back then,” he suddenly said in a resentful voice. His resentment seemed so old it was like it came from another world. Half a century is a long time. “I would’ve forgiven you. I even came much earlier to the church, though I hadn’t intended to take confession that day. Franciszek wasn’t there yet, and he usually came right after sunrise. I truly don’t know why that youthful confession of yours was so important to me. Over a handful of apples from my orchard. But God must have known. All I remember is that when I was already sitting in the confessional I suddenly felt crushed by the great silence in the church. I had the impression the church was built of that silence. And it was strange, but I had no desire to pray, though praying’s in a priest’s blood, it’s a matter of habit, anywhere and anytime. Perhaps I didn’t want the words of the rosary to give away the fact that I was there. Even to myself, even to God. I just leaned my head against the grille and surrendered to the silence that was still dark from the night. It was like I was curled up in its darkest corner, like I was hiding, not there. It was only in the depths of my soul I heard something like the soft sound of a barely smoldering hope that you would come, that any minute now in the silence I’d hear your nervous steps, like drops of water falling on the floor of the church. At the same time I was worried that God would see that hope in me, because it could be the shadow of a sin I didn’t know to confess. That hope has smoldered in me all my life now. Often afterwards I’d come much earlier to the church, just to sit in the confessional and listen to the silence of the dark building. Besides, when you’re in the confessional it’s as if it forces you to listen hard, and you listen even if you don’t hear anything, even when there’s nothing but complete silence on the other side of the grille you can still hear the whisper of people’s confessions. And still in your helplessness you never know how to tell sins from sufferings. At a certain moment the door would creak and I’d look out to see if it was you. But it would be Franciszek arriving.
‘ “You’re here early, father,’ he’d grunt. You could tell he was annoyed. And he’d set about sweeping the floor. Out of irritation he’d not sprinkle water on it and he’d end up brushing big dust clouds through the whole church. You could barely see him through the dust.
‘ “You’re spreading it around, Franciszek,’ I’d tell him off. ‘You need to sprinkle some water.’
‘ “You’re wasting your time, father! He’s not going to come!’ he’d call back, and carry on what he was doing. ‘He’d come for apples! You’d be better off taking a stroll and getting some fresh air instead of sitting in all this dust! The sun’s shining, the sparrows are chirping, it’ll do you good! A church needs to be properly swept so people don’t say afterward that it’s the house of God but it looks like a pigsty in there!’
‘ “Leave off with the sweeping, Franciszek! Come over here, I’ll confess you.’
‘ “Me?’ He was so taken aback he stopped sweeping. ‘My sins are old ones, father, and they’re always the same. You gave me confession just last week. This week all I’ve done is dig potatoes for my sister. What new sins could I have committed?’
‘ “We’ll always find something or other. Come on.’ It was ever so easy to comfort Franciszek. He was a simple, trustful soul, and he’d spent his whole life around the church. Though I may have been a bit too generous with the Kingdom of Heaven when I offered consolation. Perhaps I promised folks too much in return for everything they lacked, for all their wanderings and despair and fear. After all, I’ve been providing consolation here for so, so many years. The world passes by me,
but also through me, time passes, people pass, and I keep on and on giving consolation. I sometimes wonder if I ever really succeeded in comforting anyone at all, if anyone fully believed me. I mean, how much do I actually know about what the Kingdom of Heaven is like, what hell is like? What do I actually know about where one person or another is going to end up, what his fate in eternity is going to be? Whether it won’t just be a continuation of his life here? Because if we take our souls from this world, maybe we take our fates as well? These are probably sinful thoughts that I’m admitting to you here, may God forgive me. But I sometimes think that the only wisdom life has left us is to be horrified at life. And despite that I offer comfort, because that’s the kind of service I chose to perform. Though when I realize that the people I’ve offered consolation to might be damning me and cursing me, I don’t know if God might not tell me I made the wrong choice. Of course, it’s said that whoever you absolve, their sins will be absolved, whoever you deny, they’ll be denied. But can I really be certain who deserves forgiveness and who doesn’t? What I’d most like to do is to absolve everyone, because I feel sorry for everyone. But do I have the right to use God’s mercy as my own mercy, even when I feel great pity toward someone? Does God also feel that pity? It’s true his mercy is without limit. But I have no idea how what I’m allowed to do relates to that boundlessness. I’m just a human among other humans, everything connects me to them. So I absolve them, perhaps in vain, I deny them absolution when I’m no longer able to absolve them, but I wander among these mysteries the way only humans can wander, not knowing in the painful way only humans can not know, taking other people’s sins on my own conscience and being sinful myself. But perhaps my calling isn’t to know but to offer comfort? It’s truly a hard way to earn your daily bread, spending your whole life comforting those without comfort, the helpless, the lost. Hard and so very bitter. You have to be one of them yourself, perhaps even the poorest of the poor, lost in uncertainty about this world and the next, maybe even as sinful as them, in order for the comfort you provide to be more than just words, for you both to share your comfort the way you share your fate. I sometimes wonder if in all the hopes I’ve tried to stir in human hearts, all those hopes of others, I wasn’t seeking consolation for myself. It’s just that the longer a person consoles others, the less he finds for himself, and the worse he’s prey to doubt. So you see, that’s why I’m a sorry kind of priest. Or perhaps it’s old age. Yes, it’s probably old age. All that’s left for me is solitude with God.” He lost himself in thought for a moment, but he livened up right away. “So who’s going to be building the tomb for you?”
“Some folks have suggested the Woźniaks,” I said. “But I was thinking of Chmiel.”
“Go with Chmiel,” he said abruptly. “The Woźniaks are bunglers.”
I knew they were bunglers, I only mentioned them so he’d recommend Chmiel. Because I wanted it to look like I was choosing Chmiel on his say-so, so maybe he’d charge me less for the plot. But he didn’t charge anything at all. When I asked him, so how much will that be, father? he just waved his hand.
“I hope that there at least you’ll be able to lie at peace. It won’t be anything.”
Truth was, I’d already gotten Chmiel to agree to do it. Right after I got back from the hospital, straight from the bus I went to see him. He lived just beyond the bus stop, so I thought to myself, I’ll swing by and find out now what I’m going to need for a tomb like that, and if he’d do it, and when. There was no sense putting it off, you put it off once and twice and after that it never gets done. But Chmiel was out. Only his missus was there.
“Goodness me, you’re back!” She seemed genuinely pleased to see me. “He’s gone to see his brother in Boleszyce. Why do you want to have a tomb built though? You’re not so old. Are you sick maybe?”
“No, I’m not sick. Tell him I’ll come on Sunday. Do you know how things are looking at my place?”
“Have you not been there?”
“I came here directly from the bus, I thought I’d swing by, talk to him on the way.”
“Well you can imagine, you’ll see for yourself in a minute.”
“How’s Michał?”
“Oh, I saw him by here one time, would have been a month or so ago, he was standing outside the co-op. I said to him, how are things, Michał, are you not missing Szymek? One of your cows is with Borzych, I believe, Talar took the other one. Can’t tell you who’s got your horse. They did say, but I don’t remember. There’s always so much to keep in your mind.”
Sołuch had my horse, Stach Kwiecień told me on the way. “They’ve starved it so bad you won’t recognize it. Theirs stayed in the stable while they used yours to do all the work. So are you going to be lame for the rest of your life?”
Aside from that he told me old Mrs. Waliszyn had died, that No-Hope Jasiu had killed himself on his motorcycle. And that I no longer had a dog, though he couldn’t say whether the dog had gotten free from its chain on its own, or whether someone had let it loose, you know how it is with dogs. Besides, I could get a new puppy from Mikus, his bitch had just pupped. He’d seen Michał, but when was it now, when was it? Oh yeah, he’d been sitting on the steps one time scraping carrots with a piece of glass. Those are good carrots, huh, Michał? You make sure you eat them, carrots give you more blood. Look, Miętus is coming, he might have seen him. Say, Miętus, you seen Szymek’s Michał by any chance?”
“Is he not at home?”
“I don’t know, I just got back from the hospital, I’m on my way from the bus.”
“He’s probably at home. Where else would he be. So you’re walking with sticks now, is it? Will you always have to from now on?”
“There’s not so much of that ‘always’ anymore, Walerian.”
“Maybe, maybe not, but it’ll feel like you’re doing more walking now in a day than you did before in a month. You could well have a long road ahead of you. Because me, I’m almost there.”
“You look okay.”
“Maybe on the outside, but inside I’m like that old willow that used to stand by the footbridge. I want to go see my sister in Zochcice one more time, then I think l’m going to die.”
Michał wasn’t at home. I went around the yard, the barn, the cattle sheds, I called, Michał! Michał! Everything was in ruins. I started digging around, I thought maybe there’d be a little grain left in one of the sacks, I could take it to the mill to get it ground and make some bread. Bread would be a beginning. But there was only one sack left, with bran. I’d had three before. There was rye in the first one, the second had wheat. I went into the orchard. Some of the trees had withered, others were looking crooked and sick, and all the earth there was trampled flat as a threshing floor. After that I went to the attic. Getting up there wasn’t actually that hard, though climbing down was worse. Then I sat and thought awhile in the main room, although there wasn’t really all that much to think about, either way I had to start from scratch. But before I did anything else I got up and headed out to the village to track Michał down.
I went around the nearest neighbors. One place after another was closed up, everyone was out in the fields because it was harvesttime. At the Kuśmiereks’ only Rysiek was in.
“Say, Rysiek, you haven’t seen Michał have you?”
“What Michał?” His hair was all matted and his eyes were red, you could tell he must have been drinking the day before. It was vacation time and he wasn’t going to his technical school.
“You know, my brother.”
“Oh, the old guy.”
“He’s not exactly old.”
“What do you mean not old? He’s got a beard down to here, like what’s-his-name, Lord Jesus, or that other one.”
“He’s got a beard? I didn’t know.”
“Yeah. Will you have a drink, uncle? My head’s splitting, plus father’s making me go help him in the fields. I told him, don’t sow rye. Turn the whole thing over to corn, and get into rearing livestock. Beef cattle, hogs
– do you have any idea how much money you can make off those things? I could buy myself a motorbike. A car even.”
I went by Kałuża’s, two doors beyond Kuśmierek’s, but only his old lady was there, she was sitting outside on the bench feeding the chickens.
“You haven’t seen Michał have you, Mrs. Kałuża?”
“Oh, you’re back, thank heaven! We didn’t think you’d come back. Michał? I don’t go anywhere these days, sweetie. My legs won’t carry me anymore. Sometimes just down to the road. When did you get lame now? And in both legs as well? Our Irka’s got another little girl already, but that ne’er-do-well still won’t marry her, can you imagine. And her pretty as a picture. Never were such times.”
I remembered Mrs. Chmiel saying Borzych had my cow. Maybe Michał was at their place as well. But only the cow was there. Michał had used to visit, but he’d not been since spring. Only one time he’d come by there recently, Borzych’s wife had given him a bowl of cabbage, he’d wolfed the whole thing down in a flash so she gave him seconds, plus he ate like half a loaf of bread. Ask Koziara maybe. They were saying he’d helped Koziara bring his hay in. All right, let me have my cow. I put the halter around the cow’s neck, I’m leading it out of the cattle shed and Borzych pipes up, says he’s owed something.
“For what?”
“What do you mean, for what? For the cow. It’s been here a whole year, since Prażuch died.”
“You son of a bitch!” I was furious. “You must have milked it! I used to get two bucketfuls every day, how much cheese and cream and butter have you had from that?!”
I took the cow into my shed, tied it up, and went back down to the village to continue looking for Michał. Kwiatkowski was driving his wagon to go gather his sheaves.
“Have you seen Michał maybe?”
“Whoa.” He stopped his horse. “Michał?”
“You know, my brother.”
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