His words were interrupted by a sharp bang. The second of the skins rapidly produced from his short trousers a short baseball bat and with his full force, slammed it on the plastic surface of the bar. The roar was so loud that Byniek jumped up as if he was on a spring. Pieces of the plastic burst from the strike, and the wooden chump went back to the thug’s trouser leg. “Now, now, Bula, don’t get nervous. Mister was just kidding” the first bandit gently soothed his colleague. Byniek pressed the checkout. The metal drawer came out with a distinctive crack. “Take what you want” Byniek sighed in resignation. “Everything I earned today.” They took nearly everything, leaving just some change. How generous.
“I'll close down this bar, ” said Byniek. “At this rate, I will not even be able to pay the taxes.”
“Your business, grandfather” growled the first thug. His colleagues called him Onuca. Each of them had a nickname. They did not use their real names, of course. “Arrange the weekly payment with the boss like any self-respecting restaurateur around here. In exchange, you will have care and protection. Don’t be stubborn. It will cost you cheaper and no fly will touch this counter.”
At that moment, there was another bang and the subsequent crack occurred on the counter next to the first one. This time, Byniek did not jump like before, only instinctively closed his eyes.
“Well, well, Bula, do not panic grandfather. He’s our prospective customer” Onuca exhorted his fellow with a good-natured tone.
Bula looked like a nodule, short and broad-shouldered with no neck. From his round head, which looked like it did not harbor any thoughts, looked maliciously small eyes. Onuca looked wiser. At least he pretended he was. He looked at the two others with an indulgent gaze. It was clear that he was the boss of the group. The third, the youngest - Pacan they called him - did not speak almost, only listened respectfully to every word of his colleagues and tried to imitate their movements: slow, confident, brazen.”
“Well, for now, grandpa, make more money because the boss will be unhappy. And do think about our proposal in your free time. We are in no hurry. We'll wait." Going out, Bula shut the door so ‘gently’ that one of the glasses fell and broke with a clatter on the floor of the bar.
"Time to close for the night anyway," thought Byniek involuntarily.
It was already the third time they were here. Every time, it was the same. They arrived just before closing time, turned the plaque on the door so that the side that said "Closed" faced the street, then emptied his money and disappeared into the night. The first time, they were even polite, "caring" even. During the second visit, their tone was more aggressive. Today, for the first time, they showed that the Boss was patient, but only to a certain limit.
Byniek knew that once he started to pay for "protection", he would fall into their hands forever.
No way.
He decided to buy time, a week or two, maybe a month. Maybe then, some trick, some brilliant idea would come to him.
He went, of course, to the police, but strangely, the police, which was not the militia anymore, but not the police yet, in the same militia uniforms like before, had no desire to interfere with such matters. Their attitude seemed to clearly say: "You guys didn’t like our communist government? Well, then you're on your own".
Anyway, here, in Otwock, everybody knew what was going on, though of course, no one was stupid enough to say something, not even the so-called police. After all, maybe the next month they would be also sent back to civilian life and who was going to defend them then? It was better to wait quietly. The lieutenant who received the complaint came after Byniek in the corridor and said: “You know what? Let me give you a private word of advice: Pay them, just as others do. You'll have peace of mind and glasses in your windows. Did you know that they have burned down a couple of places? All because some didn’t want to pay them? It is difficult to do something to them, even when we know who they are. Now, the law protects the criminals more than the innocents.”
“Yes, but it is a true mafia growing here under your nose.”
“This is a mafia?” The lieutenant laughed. “Band of rascals playing the mafia. There will come a time when we’ll get them. For now, we have other things on our minds.”
Byniek wondered what kind of other things the police had on their heads (even such in old uniforms) in addition to prosecuting offenders, but did not ask any longer. The lieutenant had clearly let him understand that he had said more than he should. He saluted, and returned to the office. Byniek realized then that he could not count on them now.
***
Byniek lived in the apartment of his late mother on one of the main streets of Otwock. (There were not many of those main streets.) It was a residential neighborhood, quiet and peaceful. He grew up here years ago, went to school here. Later on, he commuted to the technical college in Warsaw and then to his first job at the Kasprzak state factory. Long were those journeys. Boring. They gave him a hard time all those years. Now, after his return from Chicago, Otwock revealed itself to be a sleepy and quiet town indeed. Seemingly nothing was happening here, in this restful, suburban place, the climate dry and healthy, the water clean, the air fresh with the scent of evergreen pine forests. After all those years spent in the ever-crazy pursuit for money in Jackowo, Polish district of Chicago, Otwock was a real resort, a temple of peace and rest.
He had bought the state-owned apartment of his mother back from the city for a ridiculously small price. (He was still registered here after all these years.) Dwelling consisted of three small rooms and a kitchen. What did he need more when the time came for him to rest from the hustle and bustle of the great world?
But not so fast. He still had some things left to do. Byniek was exactly fifty years of age. He was not old yet. Right, he could pass off as a father of one of those fuckers in sweats, but certainly not a grandfather. No. The word "Grandpa" was something he would not forgive. He did not know how he was going to do it, but he was sure he would not let himself be intimidated by some thugs with a baseball bat. Browarek was his fortress, his refuge, and his castle. He smiled, thinking about how he got the place. There was previously a pastry shop here, a wooden shack, which accommodated only eight tables, built on a city lot. The pastry shop owners retired and Byniek rented the already closed local from the city for a very affordable price. The tables and chairs he purchased also inexpensively at auction, and then he set up the counter with a small cooler.
After receiving from the municipal government permission to sell beer, his business moved forward.
There was not enough room at the back, so there, Byniek created a cold cellar. Avoiding the official procedure associated with obtaining a permit for the expansion of a building belonging to the city, he dug the dirt during the evenings until he was finally able to create a small cellar, which he could go down through a set of wooden stairs from the back of the bar. The walls were lined with boards, the ceiling supported by wooden beams while the floor was of beaten earth. Here, it was cool and pleasant, perfect for storing kegs of beer.
The place was dry, without flowing water. No flies. No dust. Once he put up the walls and poured the concrete slab, the basement would be ready.
Yes, it would be the real Browarek. And he would make it so cute, simply a place not to bypass. He would organize a small garden for the summer months, put a few tables outside with some colorful umbrellas and put up speakers streaming with popular music. Yes, and he would hire two waitresses, preferably young and pretty. That always attracted customers.
And for the winter, he would start the hot menu. The winter would be less terrible then. Indeed, with a bowl of hot soup or stew, every winter could be good. Right, the beer also must be hot, preferably with some juice or spices, or better yet, juice and spices. Just the thought of it made his mouth water so much, that he suddenly wanted one hot beer right now, at the moment. He could not wait for this first winter.
***
After the thugs left, Byniek picked
up the pieces of broken glass from the floor, covered the hole with a piece of plywood and went out to the street. His navy Fiat Cinquecento (not new anymore, but not yet old) stood quietly at the entrance next to Browarek, like a faithful horse waiting for his master.
What to do now? After midnight, it was already dark. Everything was closed. Normally, Byniek would just drive home, eat something and go sleep after. But the visit of those rascals caused unrest in his mind. He did not want to sleep right away. He needed to think about things thoroughly somewhere, among other peoples.
He knew a place that was still open at this hour, the disco club "Marycha". He had never been inside. It was located far out of town, among the spruces. He knew it was open now because he could hear from the road the sound of loud music every time he passed that way, even late at night. True, the thugs had scooped from him his takings from the day, but at least, he still had his wallet (so far). It was sufficient for a small nightlife. He drove ahead, watching the road through the headlights as he thought.
“They'll come again and again and rob me of everything. What to do? Pay them for protection? They won’t let me free until the end of my life. Do not pay? They will ruin me, destroy my business and my life. I will have to close the restaurant. What to do? What to do next?”
Cinquecento got out of town, moving slowly in the direction of Warsaw, the road winding through the wooded, sparsely developed area. Suddenly, in the spotlight, Byniek noticed some commotion on the side of the road. He slowed suddenly, and then pressed hard on the brakes. Someone was lying on the right side of the road. Byniek jumped out of his car. It was a girl. He leaned over her so he could see her clearly in the darkness. The girl tried to get up, but she could not.
"Probably, she was hit by a car. Maybe she has broken something?" he thought frantically. “Lie still, ” he told her. “As soon as I find a phone, I will call the ambulance and the police. They’ll be here in no time.”
“No, no.” She grabbed his hand. “Take me away from here.”
“You must not move. You may have broken bones,” explained Byniek. “You need a doctor to examine you.”
“Take me away from here, right now!” she cried in a stronger voice, not letting go of his hand.
Only now he realized she was speaking in Russian. He could understand Russian, as it was an obligatory language in all Polish schools not so long ago. Nobody liked it, but there was no choice.
Something in her voice moved him. Some desperate note. Fear? Even terror? He opened the rear door of the car and helped her to her feet. She groaned in pain with every movement, but finally, he managed to put her in the backseat of the car.
Cinquecento was not like the Buick Century Byniek owned in Chicago. You could put five such "chickens" on the backseat of the Buick. Well, it never happened to him, but it could surely have happened.
“Where should I drive you?” he asked, sitting behind the wheel. “There is some disco bar over there. Maybe we should go there. They will help you.”
“No, anywhere but there!!!” she screamed so loud that he jumped. “Absolutely not there!!!”
“Well, so where?” He started the engine and began to move the Cinquecento.
“Far away! Far away from here!”
"What the hell I should do now?" thought Byniek. "Where should I take her?"
He saw the lights of another car approaching from the opposite direction. The car drove slowly, without a rush. “Faster!” cried the girl with a sudden panic in her voice. He noticed from the rear-view mirror that she had suddenly disappeared behind the front seats.
They were looking for her, he suddenly understood. He pressed the gas pedal harder. The cars passed each other without stopping. Byniek had the impression that the two figures he saw in the front seat of the other car had toque caps on their heads, but he was not sure. He saw them only for a split of second.
As they passed near Marycha Disco, the girl hid even deeper into the back seat. Byniek did not offer any more for her to stop here. The place was probably the source of her fear.
The parking in front of the disco was full. Loud music reached aggressively into his car. Above the entrance, next to the name of the establishment, he could see its logo - a distinctive plant branch with narrow, finger-like leaves, all in green.
They went further. "What should I do with her?" he thought desperately.
“I'll take you to the police. There, you'll be safe, ” he said cautiously.
“No, not there!” Again, there was panic in her voice.
Byniek toured the back roads around the city. After a few minutes, they were on its opposite side. He sighed deeply and turned to the street where he lived, parked the car as close to the building as he could and got out.
“Can you walk now?” he asked.
“I’ll try,” she replied.
He helped her out of the car and led her to the stairwell. They met no one along the way. All the neighbors were sleeping now. They did not wander around at night like he did. Slowly, they climbed to the second floor, the girl whimpering softly at each step. They entered the apartment. Byniek carefully bolted the door behind him and closed the curtains on the windows. Only then did he turn the light on.
She was not more than twenty years old, maybe even less. Was she pretty? It was hard to say. Her matted hair half hid her face contorted in pain.
“Can you manage to take a bath?” he asked.
She nodded her head eagerly.
Byniek went to the bathroom and turned on both faucets. The tub began to fill. He went into the kitchen, pulled out of the refrigerator a bottle of mineral water and poured two glasses. He carried them into the room and handed her a glass. She drank greedily and thanked him with a forced smile.
“What's your name?” he asked.
“Nadia. Nadejda. And you?”
“Byniek.”
“Byniek? What kind of name is that?”
“It’s a nickname. My name is Zbigniew. They call me Byniek. They have since my childhood.”
He watched her curiously. She was wearing pretty, silk pajamas torn in several places and was barefoot. On her knees and hands were visible bruises and the scratches on her cheek were tainted with blood that had already hardened.
Byniek returned to the bathroom, turned the taps on the bath, then headed for the hallway dresser and pulled out a large bath towel. He handed it to the girl without a word and invited her to the bathroom with gallant gesture. She slowly got up from the chair where she sat and disappeared behind the white door.
In the meantime, Byniek went into the kitchen. He put the kettle on and started preparing the sandwiches, rye bread with ham and pickles. He had not even asked if she was hungry, but he certainly was. Smearing the bread with butter, he heard from time to time quiet moans reaching far from the bathroom.
"Oh Nadia, Nadia," he thought. “Why did I happen to meet you today?”
***
“It was better with fucking communists ruling this country,” said Florczak, sipping his beer slowly from a large mug. He took his time tasting the slightly yellowish liquid slowly, with relish, as expected of someone who knew what was good and what was not. Beer was expensive now. Every sip must be respected. “The beer was cheaper and the bread costs less, ” he went on. “And the work was easier to find. Everyone had the right to work. It was guaranteed by the constitution.”
“Well, yes, but what jobs did they give? How much did they pay? How much money have you made all these years? Do you have a house? Do you have a car? Shit, no. An old bicycle, that’s all you gained all this time. And how many shoes did you wear off walking from house to house? And what for? This small pension, which is barely enough for some beer at Mr. Byniek’s place?” teased Malinowski, who was sitting beside him.
He kept in his hand a bottle of Zywiec, from which he poured the fine liquid into his thin, tall glass, slowly so as not to produce too much foam, just enough to not spill out of the glass, just creat
e a white wreath inside the glass at about a height of one centimetre, so it tasted the best.
The two were Browarek’s regulars, having showed up from the beginning.
Florczak was tall and thin, a retired postman. As for Malinowski, his real name was not Malinowski, but everyone called him so. Together, they reminded Byniek of an unforgettable pair of comic characters from popular Warsaw radio cabaret.
There was also a third regular, Zaba. This one came to the bar twice a day, morning and afternoon. Zaba was old, wiry, and had no money. For a pint of beer, he provided cleaning services. He swept the floor with the mop, arranged the chairs and tables. In this way, he earned his beer. When he was done, he would talk with Byniek a little, then disappear in the direction he only knew. Zaba knew everyone in Otwock and was familiar with everything. He was the best way to find out what was going on in town, such a walking newspaper.
“Ah, I can still remember those good old times - continued Florczak. - In all the groceries, you could get everything you needed and a loaf of bread cost three zloty fifty. And what a loaf it was. Full one kilo. And whoever had no job just went to the state agency and there gave him a job. Jobs were waiting for people. You didn’t have to chase one around the world, as Mr. Byniek had. Whoever wanted to work could work without a problem.”
It never happened that these two were of one mind on any subject, so this time Malinowski also protested strongly: “Mr. Byniek went to America not because he didn’t have a job. He went because they paid him a pittance here. He was a technician with a diploma in his pocket and he earned no more than district postman, who could only read the address on the envelope, nothing more."
The last sip of beer gurgled furiously in the throat of Florczak.
“District postman?” screamed he so loudly that Byniek worried about the glass in his windows. “Do you know where I worked before I worked here? In the main office in Kielce! Does that tell you something, you bonehead?”
Malinowski shifted the beret on his head and fired back with great satisfaction:
“You may have worked, but briefly. You got fired for drunkenness, hehe!!!
Candlelight Stories Page 29