Sexton Messerschmidt was clearly moved by his own rhetoric. A tear glistened in his eye. He didn’t even try to hide the fact at all.
“You gentlemen will forgive me,” he said in a rough voice, reining in his own emotion, “but, as the Bolsheviks are wont to say, I’m a ślioznyj czeławiek, a tearful man. The third, the youngest of the Calvinists,” he continued, wiping the tear with his sleeve and blowing his nose out on the floor, “the third, the youngest of the Calvinists, was undone by what will soon undo all of you as well: a hasty exchange of glances with a certain Catholic woman.
“A tavern in the vicinity of Częstochowa, and a widow tavern-keeper of impressive corporality, older than him by a few good years. At dawn, instead of setting off further, instead of further escorting the bell, he’s cutting wood in the courtyard, carrying water, and claiming that he’s discovered the meaning of life. Gentlemen! The meaning of life and a mixed marriage—this is like fire and water! You don’t understand a thing now anyway. Any moment, you will tumble into the arms of alluring young papist girls, but the time will come when you will remember my words. Never mind. On the field of battle, that is, on the route of the journey there remains the final rider of the Gospel, the Augsburg Lutheran evangelical. The route leads, God guides him, further to the south. It is already the height of a luxuriant, sweltering spring. The sleigh was long ago replaced by horse and cart. He is alone on the sandy road. His fingers graze the surface of the bell, smooth like a Protestant girl’s skin, and that freezing, dark Kiejdany night when they took the bell down from the tower, when, driven not only by a divine calling, they set off into the unknown—that time, so it seems to him now, is not of this world, and not of this life. Now the road leads upward, hill after hill, higher and higher, and finally—there it is. At his feet stretches the promised valley. Evangelicals busy themselves around their farmyards. Church choirs sing psalm after psalm. Birds fly up to the sky. Everywhere a good, amicable light shines forth. Hosanna.
“And in that manner,” the Sexton’s voice suddenly seemed to break off, and now he spoke entirely without conviction, “and in that manner my ancient ancestor reached the Cieszyn land. Let the middle bell sing!” he suddenly shouted, and there was no way not to think that with this shout he wished to drown out something that either had not yet been said, or that had already been said in excess. “I’ll tell you the story of the middle bell another time, another time. For today it is enough for you to know that it was cast and offered to us on the personal instructions of King Charles XII of Sweden, who not only routed the Evangelical-Eater, Emperor Joseph I, but also wrung from him six churches of Grace! That’s right. Six churches of Grace! Sagan—Żagan! Freistadt—Kożuchów! Hirschberg—Jelenia Góra! Landshut—Kamienna Góra! Militsch—Milicz! Teschen—Cieszyn! And now, and now,” Sexton Messerschmidt readied himself for the finale, “and now let the great bell sing!”
Hearts rocked under cast-iron domes that beat for all their might in their own rhythm, even though it was all directed by Messerschmidt. His voice was entirely buried in their music. It seemed to us that we pulled the ropes, but it was they that pulled us up and let us down. We flew up, and we fell down, like apprentice angels. Sexton Messerschmidt told the entire unhearable story of the great Wittenberg bell.
“That’s right, that’s right. The great bell comes from the castle church in Wittenberg,” Sexton Messerschmidt’s gaping mouth dumbly told the tale. “The generous folk of Wittenberg made an offering of that bell to the oppressed folk of Cieszyn, so that they, listening to the very same tones to which our Reformer, Dr. Martin Luther, listened, might not grow weary in their reformatory zeal. That’s right, that’s right, gentlemen, the great bell rang in the tower of the castle Church of St. Paul. It rang on that cold October morning when our Reformer, with the help of a sixteenth-century hammer, nailed his ninety-five theses on the topic of indulgences to the church door. If you gentlemen will listen carefully,” Sexton Messerschmidt turned his face upward, “if you gentlemen will listen carefully, you will hear that the passionate banging of the Lutheran hammer has settled forever in the tone of the great bell, and it echoes in it quite clearly even now. That is to say,” in Messerschmidt’s unheard narration there echoed an almost audible venomous accent, “that is to say, if you are pious, you will hear it. The impious, Bolsheviks, pagans, and other slayers of Catholic girls won’t hear a thing. For the might of our bell is based not only on the fact that its tone surpasses other tones, but that it also absorbs other tones and records them in the abysses of its substance. That is the reason why it is said that all of our bells are Wittenberg bells, although we also have a Swedish bell and a Radziwiłł bell. But the great Wittenberg bell surpasses them, it leads them, it absorbs their voice, and it bestows its own voice upon them. Listen, listen, and you will hear, in the transparent, cold, October air (the first snows lurk in the clouds over Wittenberg), you will hear the banging of the irascible hammer, piercing the parchment with iron nails.”
•
I strained my ears, I slowly dressed, and more and more clearly I heard blows that were, admittedly, not irascible, but regular and forceful. An inky glow filled the kitchen. Someone had screwed a deep blue light bulb, left behind by the Germans, into the lamp that was hanging over the table. Mr. Trąba stood on a stool and nailed a large gray blanket to the window frame with unexpected skill.
“A black-out like during the occupation, like during the occupation, Chief, only even stricter. Verdunkelung sensu largo. Stricter, because under the Germans we were younger and often, especially after we’d had a glass, hastier. Stricter,” Mr. Trąba sighed heavily, “stricter, because we are passing from the phase of theoretical debate to the phase of praxis.”
With the lightness of a youth, he jumped down from the stool and occupied his place at the table. First of all he glanced intently at Father, then, I suppose absolutely by chance, since after all he couldn’t see me—I had hidden among the coats in the entryway, and I was spying through the crack of the open door—and so, absolutely by chance, Mr. Trąba glanced in my direction, was silent for a moment, and then began to speak in an especially stifled but at the same time solemn voice.
“Chief. I will speak off the top of my head, since, obviously, I didn’t make any notes. Notes in our case mean certain deportation. I believe I remember everything, and I’ll be able to say everything. If, however, it should turn out that my memory, impaired by excessive doses of the world, should bring me to some reprehensible lapse, I insist you call it to my attention. Gentlemen!” Mr. Trąba took too copious a gulp of air, like an inexperienced swimmer, which made his theatrically altered voice resound even more strangely. “Gentlemen! Comrade Gomułka lives in Warsaw at 7 Frascati Street, on the second floor of a five-story building that was built in the twenties. Functionaries of the security police occupy one of the apartments on the ground floor. There are six of them. They take shifts, three at a time, to cover twenty-four hours. They are armed, of course, even though they are demoralized by the peace and shameful—that’s right, shameful—renunciation of the tradition of uprising that has reigned in our land for years. Practically the entire time, yes, the entire twenty-four hours of their shift, passes in card play. Mostly they play poker, although one of the shifts prefers gin rummy or a game called ‘tail,’ about which I know nothing more. They play for high stakes, sometimes even for ten złotys per point. This proves conclusively that bribery as a means of attaining our goal no longer comes into consideration. Unless first, in order to acquire the appropriate means, we rob a bank, or even several banks. As you gentlemen know perfectly well, the great terrorists, both Asiatic and European, operated in this manner. I fear, however, that we can’t afford to join this tradition in any strict fashion, to follow faithfully in the footsteps of the classics of terror. Anyway, as the English say. All the guards who watch over Comrade Gomułka’s safety know the taste of alcohol perfectly well, to put it mildly. More often than not they take a few nips while on duty, which might see
m to create the impression of carelessness and lack of responsibility. Gomułka, like every disciplinarian in a position of leadership who lacks even a hint of a sense of humor, combats every sociable frivolity connected with work with all severity. He himself reaches for the bottle rarely, and he must always have a reason for it, moreover a reason that is exceptionally solemn, which puts him in the category of alcoholic layman and makes me, personally, utterly disgusted by his person. As you gentlemen know perfectly well,” in Mr. Trąba’s voice there sounded the note, which I knew well, that heralded the genre of the selfless epic, “as you gentlemen know perfectly well, alcoholic laymen who drink exclusively for solemn reasons or on festive occasions belong to a despicable category. The true artist of spirits drinks exclusively without a reason and without an occasion. What is more, he avoids—like an aristocrat—the typical occasions on which common mortals plunge themselves into the swamp of unexpected transports. Gomułka gets drunk exclusively on New Year’s Eve. I really don’t know a manifestation of worse taste. That’s not all. On New Year’s Eve he gets drunk with exceptionally repulsive methodicalness. Namely, around 9:00 in the evening he makes his appearance in the ballroom (usually in the Palace of Culture and Science, if it is the ‘Ball of the Working People,’ or in the assembly hall of the Warsaw Polytechnic, if it is the ‘Ball of the Citizens of the Capital’). He takes his seat at the head table, and he doesn’t budge from the spot until midnight. With relish, bending his neck in that characteristic way of his, he observes the absolutely spontaneous (of course!) merry-making. He sips moderately at a first, then takes a second glass. He doesn’t dance. When, however, the midnight hour strikes, the beast in him is awakened. True, not right away, for first he stands and raises a toast to the New Year: ‘Comrades, Citizens, Working People. The passing year was a year of strenuous labor and further advancement of economic progress . . .’ But as soon as he has finished his toast, the first secretary immediately marches off to battle. He begins to drink more. True, he drinks with repulsive methodicalness, but he drinks greedily, and with great strides he surrenders himself to the art of dance. He renders compliments. He takes active part in the choral singing of proletarian songs, and he finishes his merry-making around 6:00 in the the morning in a state of absolute alcoholic dementia. If not for the tiny detail that this is a man constantly divorced from reality, you could say that once a year Comrade Wiesław divorces himself from reality. I once planned . . .”
“Mr. Trąba,” in Father’s voice curiosity vied with irritation, “how, by God the Father, do you know all these pieces of information?”
“I drew them from the same source where you, Chief, draw so much knowledge.” Smiling playfully, Mr. Trąba tapped his index finger on the huge sheet of newspaper that was spread out on the table. “I read this between the lines of The People’s Tribune.”
“Mr. Trąba,” Father said with a smile that was full of admiration, “if it weren’t for the fact that we are on duty, I would pronounce the ritual formula: that this is a beautiful phrase, and worthy of reward. This is one of your most splendid ripostes. You have my esteem.”
“A thousand thanks, Chief. That’s right. We’re on duty, and there can be no talk of even a drop of alcohol. On the other hand, however, I have to say that I would feel a particular distress if one of my most subtle lines went without the reward it deserves, even if it were to have a somewhat smaller measure, let’s say half. Second, the hour is so late that we can accept the notion that the proverbial glass takes on the function of the bracing mocha. Third, and most important, it is time, I believe, that the youngest participant in the action,” Mr. Trąba clearly pointed in my direction, “attained knowledge of our secrets and initiation.”
Father remained silent and didn’t budge from the spot.
“Chief,” Mr. Trąba said with his official voice, one well trained in its officialness, “what you heard wasn’t the empty twaddle of your friend, rather the voice of your superior and the commander of this action. Have the goodness to appreciate the fact that, bearing your merits in mind, I do not use the word ‘order,’ but I also ask that such acts of insubordination not be repeated in the future.”
Father obediently stood up from the table, went up to the sideboard, took out a bottle and glasses, and placed them on the table.
“Come, Jerzyk,” Mr. Trąba beckoned in my direction, and I entered into the inky abyss of the kitchen on trembling legs.
I was certain that I would immediately hear the ghastly word “child.” “Please don’t involve the ‘child’ in this,” Father would immediately say, or “The ‘child’—absolutely not,” or “The ‘child’ should be sleeping by now,” or “He’s still a ‘child.’” But Father filled the glasses in silence. I sat down slowly on the white lacquered stool, which now was as if coated with a light blue varnish. And Mr. Trąba spoke further:
“Jerzyk, my man! That you are a man is universally known.” Could it be that he knew what I had been up to with the angel of my first love? The panicky thought flashed through my head, but Mr. Trąba was clearly not interested in concrete details. “We will not, therefore, repeat the obvious and thereby trivialize the beginning of the ritual. Namely, as a man, Jerzyk, together with other men (contrary to appearances both your Father and I still deserve that appellation), you will have the chance to participate in a great patriotic act. But as a child”—there you have it! I thought, there you have it! I have divine gifts and outpace reality by at least half a step—“for, after all, even being a man, you still are—and what is more, you always will be—a child in various ways, if only in the sense of being the child of your parents; and so, as a child, Jerzyk, you will have a completely unique opportunity, which, already at the very beginning of life, will put you in an incredibly privileged position. Namely, as a child, Jerzyk, you will have the chance to crush the serpent’s brow:
‘Who, yet an infant, crushed the serpent’s brow,
In youth will choke the centaur’s breath,
Snatch victims forth from hell below,
And win heaven’s laurels after death!’”
Mr. Trąba recited carefully, placing each accent and pause in its appropriate place. “Whether in your further life you skillfully exploit the opportunity given you, that is, whether you will choke, snatch, and win what you ought—that, Jerzyk, is your business. We are giving you the sort of opportunity that none of your cohort has. But now, raise your glass, Jerzyk.” From the beginning of his oration, Mr. Trąba had held his glass behind the safe enclosure of his fingers. “And now, raise your glass and drink. We all know, gentlemen,” Mr. Trąba arose and we with him, “what the first sip of alcohol means in the life of a man. Jerzyk, in order to avoid choking like a debutant, an image so favored in second-rate literature, proceed according to the following method: just before drinking, take in a modest amount of air—in other words, inhalation; then, drink up in one gulp, not breathing out, of course—in other words, non-halation; then, delicately but decidedly release the air—in other words, exhalation. This is the point: after drinking schnapps you must release the air from the body in order to make room there for more of it. Gentlemen—Jerzy, Stanisław,” Mr. Trąba clinked glasses with us, and Father and I did the same, we clinked our glasses, “gentlemen, let the head of the tyrant fall. To our health and to the health of all our tyrannicidal colleagues, living and dead.”
And we drank. And I drank. And it went as smoothly as could be. The transparent cloud of juniper berry vodka threaded its way among the shadows of my entrails, and there were upon it signs and prophecies, and there were in this first sip of mine the prefigurations of all my future sips. Recorded in it were all my future falls, bouts of drunkenness, bottles, glasses, retchings, all my future delirious dreams, all my gutters, counters, tables, bars, all the cities on the pavement of which my corpse would once repose. There were all the waitresses with whom I would place orders in my life. You could hear in it my incoherent babble, and in it my hands shook. Even my death, shrouded in
a cloak made of nothing but bottle labels, sat there and laughed terribly, but I wasn’t afraid in the least. And so I drank. The first power entered into me, and together with it came the first great bestowal of wings. I was able to do everything now. With one action I was able to solve a thousand complicated equations. With one motion I was able to summon a thousand protective angels. With one kick I could kick a thousand goals. With one gesture of my powerful hand, with one finger, I could grind Władysław Gomułka to dust. I glanced at the faces of Father and Mr. Trąba, masked with a light-blue glow, and I knew that the same mask graced my face, that on my hands (just as on theirs) were the light-blue gloves of the conspirator. I recalled Sexton Messerschmidt telling the story of divine sparks, light-blue like a gas flame. I looked with rapture at my hands, which were now not only the hands of the born bell-ringer, but also the hands of the hired murderer, mercenary, marksman.
“And if by some miracle I should succeed,” Mr. Trąba’s voice returned a feeling of duty to me, “even if by some miracle I should succeed, and if I should manage to get into his immediate proximity, I wouldn’t be able to do it from close quarters anyway. I wouldn’t strike him down with a stiletto, to say nothing of doing it with my bare hands. The physical repugnance that I feel for Comrade Wiesław would certainly paralyze me. With my bare hands I could destroy Comrade Mao. Gomułka—absolutely not. And besides, it’s easier to kill from a distance . . .”
Jerzy Pilch Page 7