It was in such a mood, after classes, that I sat behind a clump of sweet flag, and in front of me, on my knees, I held my biggest enemy then - my school student’s report.
There, under the heading of today's date, the word "unprepared" had been written and next to it was my note of history. And it was neither a three nor an ugly two, which would have been possible to show at home. No, it was something worse, something that did not even fit on the scale of school rating at the time. It was a note one, or as we called it, a chump. And the sad thing was that I had actually prepared myself at home a little bit, maybe not so much but still, a little. I've always had - and have to this day - a problem with remembering the dates.
When our teacher, Mrs. Tochka, put me in front of the blackboard and when I saw all those malicious eyeballs staring blindly at me, just waiting for me to stumble, it turned out suddenly that all the numbers I knew escaped somehow from my head. I could not remember any date - absolutely none.
The class went wild with joy, because they had all suddenly experienced a sense of self-appreciation and I dragged myself back to my seat with the note one in my student’s rapport, the only once I had ever had in my life.
I stared at the ugly mark grimly as I sat on my school bag near the water. It wouldn’t have been such a big problem if it was only a chump. That I could rewrite neatly as a four, only a good color of ink was needed. But this stupid word “unprepared” was written next to it. This could no longer be converted.
Should I lose my report? I already did it a few times. Just try to make it sign fast by my mother without reading and show it back to the teacher? Next week was planned the parents' meeting. The cat would get out of the bag anyway. Or, kill myself? Maybe it was the only solution left, nothing else came to my mind.
Suddenly, I heard something in between the sweet flag clumps. It sounded like a quiet whine, something like a small dog whimpering. I listened intently. The sound was repeated, and after a while, again, but this time more silently. I stood up and pushed through the reeds. Something was lying on the other side of a clump, about two feet from the water. Something like a girl, but a strange kind. Entwined in seaweed so I could not see her clothes - or whether or not she had some on - her hair was dry and tangled and through the narrow gap between her squinting eyelids, I could catch a glimpse of greenish eyes.
She opened them with difficulty when I leaned over her.
“Water,” she whispered.
“Boiled?” I asked stupidly. At home, I was allowed to drink only boiled water from the kettle, never straight from the tap.
“From the lake, idiot. Pour some water over my hair.”
I did not understand what she meant, but I did what she wanted. I scooped some water in my cupped hands and poured it over her head.
“Good,” she cried happily, and then pleaded “More of it.”
I poured more water over her head until it had turned completely wet. Then she sat up with a sudden burst of energy.
“Did you try to drown yourself?” I asked curiously. “How is it done?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“That's what I’ve wanted to do, but I do not know how.”
“Why would you want to do it?”
I did not know why, but I started telling her about my problems. I even showed her my shameful student’s rapport assessment.
She took my rapport in her hands, then returned it to me after a moment without saying a word.
I told her everything - that no one liked me, that the guys from Orezna street were always trying to bully me whenever I passed by, that Mrs. Tochka, our history teacher kept embarrassing and ridiculing me during the lessons of history and Russian language, and finally, that I did not want to live any longer.
“Where do you live?” I asked at the end when she did not comment on my tragic tale. “May I bring you here some clothes?”
She shook her head and pointed toward the lake.
“You live in the lake?” I asked in disbelief.
“Yes - she answered seriously.” You still do not know who I am?
“I think some tadpole maybe. I heard there are tadpoles over there.”
“You're the tadpole” she answered angrily as if I had insulted her and threw at me a clump of seaweed. I barely had time to dodge it.
“I'm Rusalka” she said proudly. “What does that tell you?”
“I think I’ve heard that name before, but what happened to you here, on the bank?”
“I fell asleep ashore and the sun dried my hair. When we, Rusalkas have dry hair, we die. You just saved my life.”
“You should always carry with you a jar of water then” I advised. “What do they do the Rusalkas?”
“You really don’t know? We lure the losers like you to the water, seduce them, and then drown them.” She looked at me with her gleaming green eyes. “Do you still want to drown?”
“Looks like a little bit less than before.”
“I do not want to drown you, because you helped me, but may I at least seduce you?”
“Seduce? How do you do it?”
She gave me a puzzled look.
“This you also do not know? Have you ever played a doctor game with a girl?”
“Only once. This Jadzka from the next street, dragged me one day into the gooseberries, and began to show me how to play the doctor, but her father came and slapped my back with the branch of a tree. I never tried it again after that.”
“Well, seducing is quite similar.”
“You mean we touch each other?”
“Right. That is how it begins.”
“And then, you slap me with a branch?”
She rolled her eyes and raised them to heaven.
“You really are stupid. But anyway, I like you because you wet my hair. I have to go back, I'm afraid that I too deserve a note one today.”
“Why?”
“I did not seduce you nor drown you. I broke the rules, so the punishment will be hard. They can even drive me out of the lake for that. Here, in case we do not see each other again, let me give you a souvenir. Do not lose it.”
She pressed something into my hand, then dove into the water, disappearing within seconds. It was strange. Usually, when someone dives into the water, ripples form a round shape, but now, the water simply closed above her without leaving the slightest trace of the waves as if the surface had not been disturbed at all.
I looked at my hand. In my palm lay a small object. Such an ordinary snail shell, like the ones I drew during the lessons in biology. The only difference was, this one was silver.
I did what all kids do with shells - I put it to my ear.
And I heard a faint ‘pic, pic, pic’ as if the heart of a snail who had lived there once was still alive inside. All of a sudden, I felt something strange. A sudden burst of energy shook my entire body.
I put the shell in my pocket, and since then, have never parted with it.
On the way back home - somehow my meeting with Rusalka had changed my mind about not wanting to live anymore - I looked in my student rapport. To my surprise, the page I had been looking at earlier had changed. I blinked and read again the note made by my history teacher. It said: “Well prepared" and the grade jotted down was 4 instead of 1.
I walked down Orezna street - a decision I deliberately made. From a distance, I saw them preparing to give me a beating. I walked closer, nonchalantly, and suddenly, as if my arm had a life of its own, I smashed my satchel against the ugly face of Lulek. (This one was the worst of them.) He fell down, grimacing in pain, unprepared for my attack. I kicked the second scamp in the shin, sending him howling sorely and the third one fled the street in panic. Since that time, they always moved out of my way, proving a line I read once in a book that you only had to stand up to bullies once. As for the shell, I have carried it with me all this time, and when I was sad, or having a bad day, I simply raised it to my ear and listened to its faint ‘pic, pic, pic’ for a moment. It always helped.
>
I came many times to the lake, but Rusalka did not show up any more. Could it be that they really chased her away from the lake? I wondered. But I knew that one day I would meet her again. I still had to thank her after all for her gift and for the modification in my student diary.
***
Vienna, 1980
Four of us sat in our apartment on Opelgasse street, milking a cow.
For those who had never been in Vienna and do not know what it means to "milk a cow", a short explanation: a cow is a big, bulky bottle of wine. That night, she stood on the floor, in the middle of the room, and we sat on four chairs around, each of us with a glass in hand. The wine was white, as gentle slopes that are ideal for growing white grapes surround Vienna. In Austria, they produced more white wine than red. I even remember the scandal, which erupted on Grinzing, when one of the innkeepers got caught coloring the white wine with beets just in order to satisfy the appetite of some French tourists for red wine. Poles are not among the harsh tourists. In France, we drink red wine. White in Austria, pure Stolichnaya in Russia, in Crimea we drink kumys. We could even drink kangaroo’s milk in Australia if it only contained alcohol. There was no disgrace in adapting to local customs, whereas it is a great shame to stay sober for too long. It was damned depressing, in fact, causing man to fall into complex, tiring thoughts.
“Me, I submitted my papers to migrate to Australia, ” said Waldek as he took a sip from his Viertel. Viertel is a quarter-liter glass and there are only two types of it: empty and full. Mine was empty, so I filled it up. The others immediately consumed their own and also filled them. No one wanted to be left behind.
“Why to Australia?” I asked.
“Because they have the shortest waiting time” he answered. “I've already had enough of waiting. The work in Feibra is driving me crazy.”
Feibra was a private advertising company and its Pole employees complained as much as possible. Most of its jobs, like the one Waldek held, consisted of dispersing leaflets in private homes and apartments.
“It’s too hot in Australia, ” said Must. “Your balls will get baked.”
His name was not Must. Rather, it was his nickname because he often used the phrase "Must be must."
“Fuck Australia and the USA.” Said Marek, with whom we shared the apartment. “Fuck Canada also. And fuck this whole emigration too. I'm going back to Poland. I've got a wife and a child and I've made enough dough for a new Polski Fiat. I’ll put it on the road and I’ll drive a taxi. I do not need anything else.”
Marek had both feet firmly on the ground. He came to Vienna just to make some money. He worked with Waldek, in Feibra, coming home each day dog-tired. His after-work routine was always the same. He would put his swollen feet into a basin of warm water, then after eating something, he would walk to a nearby "heurigen" for an "ein viertel weisseweine". Never, of course, has it ended with one only.
A "heurigen" or "gasthaus" was an inn, of which there were plenty in every Bezirk. There was something to eat over there, but most of the clients went there to enjoy cheap white wine or beer. You could also listen in here to the specific language of Vienna, called the "Winner Dialect".
Arriving to Vienna, German tourists often had problems with understanding the language. But I started my "Viennese schooling" from the bottom, which means just from the "heurigens". Therefore, I mastered this dialect quite quickly, and "ein viertel weisseweine bitte" I could say so smoothly that I could be mistaken for a native Viennese of the lower spheres. When the conversation goes beyond this only sentence, trouble began, of course, so I kept repeating it again until I got another glass of wine.
I liked Marek for his honesty. He never pretended to be anything more or less than what he was. He was not interested in politics. He was a straight thinking guy, the genuine kind. He came to Austria just to make money for a car and start a taxi business with it. Once the money had been made, he would return to Poland to his wife and kid and piss off the rest.
Many Poles I met in Vienna were not so honest. They claimed that they left their country only for ideological reasons, but when you observe their conduct, you could easily see that money is the only thing they have on their minds. Earn as much dough as possible, and then we'll see what will be more comfortable, go back to the country with the money, or remain in this Rotten West. I had little respect for them, much less even for those who sought out their German origins, or anything at all that would link their family roots to Germany like: his grandfather was a Volksdeutsche or something like this. Those could move to Germany, where they immediately received lodging and money from “social benefit”, then they disavowed their Polish origin and peeled head high at the sight of every gray Polish citizen. But of course, each man has his own history.
Through our apartment have already gone generations of Poles who went on exile. It had everything you needed for life: pots, plates, cutlery and three beds with beddings. There was also a pram under one of the beds, proof that some of the previous tenants had multiplied themselves out of boredom while waiting for a visa to a country that chooses to embrace them.
There were mainly four countries to apply to for immigration: USA, Canada, Australia and South Africa. Where to go and where you could most easily "settle down" was a favorite subject for each "cow milking", so I could hear a lot of stories before making my decision.
As for Must, he chose South Africa.
“If you want to go there,” he taught me “remember, they’ll ask you if you're a racist. This is the most important question. Over there prevails Apartheid and some Poles, to ingratiate the embassy, say they do not like black people. Visa is refused immediately. Sure, so soon after you master their language, they will give you a gun and tell you to shoot to blacks, but they want you to do it out of love, not hate.”
“And would you shoot them?” I asked.
“Must be must, ” he said. “But I'd rather prefer not to. A black man is still a man, although black.”
“In Australia, there are some black men also” Waldek said. “But those, Australians, are different somehow. They sit somewhere in the scrub, don’t go to the cities.”
“In the bush” Marek corrected as such conversations he already knew by heart. “Sitting in the bush and hunting with boomerangs.”
“And if you apply to the U.S., it is a long time to wait?” I asked.
“Longer than to Australia, but not as long as to Canada.” The United States is good. It is easy to find work there and there are a lot of Poles. There is even a district in Chicago, where all the people speak Polish. You rent an apartment there, you buy an old car and immediately you become an American. You just need to get work, but there's no problem with that.”
“And Canada?” I continued my inquiries. “Also a long time to wait?”
“For the visa, the waiting time is about half a year” Marek answered. “Those who went there have written that at the beginning, the Canadian government helps you to learn the language in school and provides you with other benefits. After you finish school, they help you find a job. To compare everything, Canada is probably the best. It offers free medical care and social help for all those who do not work. And if you go to Alberta, you are immediately at work in petrol. There is now a boom in the oil fields, so you can get a job even without learning their language. And some of the guys are still sitting on social help benefits after a few years and working in black, but such a lie does not pay up in the long run.”
So much information at one time. We all had to digest it quietly, and here, the cow was almost empty. We poured what remained of its contents to our viertels equally.
“Must has to jump for the wine” proposed Marek. “It’s his turn now.”
“Must be must, ” said Must and ordered contribution for the next cow.
***
In Vienna, the place I liked the most was Grinzing.
It was the tourist district, full of wineries, large and small, the waitresses bending under the weight of t
rays full of glasses of wine and steaming platters of various meats. Cigarette smoke hung constantly in the air and buzz of drunken voices filled all the rooms up to the ceiling.
Over there, it did not seem right to be sober. Sobriety in Grinzing was as obscene and ridiculous as being naked inside a clothing store. And there were a lot of choices to get screwed. Of course, the main drink was white wine in a variety of types and flavors. Some ladies procure a must, it was a drink a little sweet and slightly fizzy, not yet wine but more than juice, pleasant to drink and with a low alcohol content. Only the most seasoned connoisseurs drunk sturm, which was the product of the turbulent phase of fermentation. Cloudy, whitish, and capable of causing unforeseeable physical and psychological effects, even long after it has been consumed, this drink was definitely not for everyone. We visited the Grinzing rarely. It was too expensive for our budget, a place mainly for tourists. The Viennese had fun while riding out of town. There, on the sunny hills, surrounded by vineyards were scattered heurigens, the owners of each serving their own wine products. Those places were charming. You could tuck there the grapes growing on the vines just over the tables. But those places I experienced later. The Austrians, with whom I worked, often took me with them on Fridays after work to celebrate the end of the week with a few viertels of weisse weine. Tourists rarely frequented those restaurants. You had to have a car to find them.
In the center of the city, however, there were quite a few large wineries like: Augustinerkeller, Zwolfapostelkeller, and many others. These were often deep cellars, hence the word ‘keller’ was used in the names of many of them.
There was no shortage of entertainment in this beautiful old city, which I still remember after so many years with extraordinary sentiment. Then, however, the main topic that intrigued my colleagues and me, was emigration and finding any job in order to have money not just for living, but also to indulge in life’s pleasures, that are not available to the owners of empty pockets.
Soon, it became clear to me that one great advantage the Poles had was their national trait which is godliness. Well, everyone knew there was a Polish church in Vienna. Every Sunday crowd of the faithful gathered at the church during the service and stood on the street in groups. The Austrians were amazed at what a God-fearing nation we were - such a large church and yet we could not all fit inside. If, however, the naive Austrian asked himself some trouble and looked inside, he would see that most of the "faithful" were on the street, and the interior of the church was not filled up. Because outside was running the "exchange market". Here, the exchange of information such as trade contacts took place, along with other meetings - all the different kinds like buying and selling. Oh, Christ once banished such people from the synagogue, but ours prudently gathered themselves outside the walls of the House of God and that’s why their sin was not so severe. For me, though, the “exchange market” was not necessary. When I was looking for work, I simply took out my silver scallop and listened to its faint ‘pic, pic, pic’ then bought a Viennese newspaper Neue Kronen Zeitung, circled an ad that interested me in pencil and two days later, I was already assigned to work for an engineering company. With my knowledge of German, it was like a real miracle. How can you not believe in the power of the shells?
Candlelight Stories Page 7