Home Is Nearby

by Magdalena McGuire

  ‘Go on,’ the Colonel said, nodding my way. ‘It won’t kill you.’ His lips twitched with amusement.

  I took a sip. It unravelled my insides, as though I were sinking into a hot bath.

  The Colonel wiped his eyes. ‘I’m sorry about your father.’

  ‘Father?’ This was the first thing I had said during the interview.

  With a look of satisfaction, he said, ‘Nasty thing, lung disease. All the worse that he’s on his own in that dilapidated cottage in the middle of nowhere. No one to take care of him as he reaches the end. This is precisely the time when he needs his daughter by his side, wouldn’t you say?’

  My glass clinked as I placed it on the table. ‘Father’s perfectly healthy.’

  The Colonel’s interview methods were so transparent they were almost laughable. It was as though he had copied all his questions, all his mannerisms, from a bad film. I had heard that the Colonel was a pompous man, impossible to take seriously, and I looked forward to returning to my cell where I could scoff with the others about his pink eyes, his small fleshy hands.

  He sorted through some pages before selecting one. ‘Doctor’s report.’

  It was a letter stamped with the insignia of our local hospital. And there was Father’s name, written at the top. My hand shook as I scanned the page and read the words: Advanced lung disease, prognosis fatal.

  There was a taste of metal in my mouth. I swallowed it back – of course he was lying. ‘Father’s perfectly healthy,’ I said once more. Not daring to stray from the script.

  The Colonel flicked his tongue over his lips and smiled. ‘You’ll want to be getting home, what daughter wouldn’t?’ He took another paper from the folder and slid it my way. This one had my name written at the top.

  I, Anna Izabela Skowrońska, confess to undertaking criminal activities contrary to the interests of my country. I declare that I hereforth renounce all activity detrimental to the State and commit myself to abiding by the legal order. I herein renounce my associations with known or suspected criminals and pledge my loyalty to the Polish People’s Republic. I pledge to co-operate with the personnel representing the People’s Republic, alerting them to any criminal or suspicious activities undertaken by people of my acquaintance.

  A dotted line in the place where I was to sign my name. Elżbieta from my cell had told me about these loyalty documents. She said that only traitors signed them. I handed it back.

  The Colonel gestured to the ceramic pot. ‘Would you like some more coffee?’ With the crook of his index finger he beckoned the guard to come closer. The guard skulked over and filled our glasses with fresh coffee. Then the Colonel nodded to the guard, who lifted my glass and with a sudden flick of his wrist, threw the contents at my face.

  I gasped and leapt from the chair, my face doused with hot liquid. A spluttering sound came from my mouth and my eyes dripped with coffee and tears. I wiped my face and blinked. The pain was a throbbing thing that took on a life of its own, so I was nothing more than a body in this brown and airless room. I gasped again, waiting for the sting to pass.

  As the shock subsided, anger overtook my fear. I wiped my eyes. The Colonel was a pathetic rabbit of a man. I wouldn’t let him see how much he’d hurt me.

  ‘Dear me, what a mess you’ve made,’ the Colonel clucked before picking up a page from the manila folder. ‘Take this with you.’ He handed me the so-called doctor’s report and then reached for his glass of coffee as the guard escorted me out.

  20

  As I wobbled away from the Colonel’s office, I hid my face from the guard. He deposited me at the cellblock and then left. Elżbieta took in my enflamed face, my tears, and told me to wait. She returned to the cell with a wet handkerchief, which she pressed against my cheek.

  ‘It’s a shock, isn’t it.’ She stroked my hair. ‘I take it you didn’t sign, did you? That’s good. They’ll leave you alone now.’

  Rocking back and forth, I told her that the Colonel had claimed Father was ill. That he was dying. ‘There was a doctor’s report.’

  Elżbieta gave a sniff. ‘Easy to forge. You know what they told me? That my mother was starving, living on the streets. I was mad with worry until I found out she was safe with my sister. This is what I’m saying – you can’t believe their lies.’ She lifted the handkerchief and said, ‘It’s looking better already.’ She pressed it back in place. ‘Call your father. If you don’t have anything for the guards I’ll give you a loan.’

  The handkerchief had started to feel clammy and I peeled it off my skin. ‘He’ll be so disappointed in me.’ I never imagined I’d be in this situation, calling my father to say that I was in prison. My fear was that he would blame Dominik.

  ‘If he’s half the man you say he is, he’ll be proud,’ Elżbieta said. ‘Anyone who’s done the right thing has ended up here.’

  ‘You sound like Dominik,’ I told her.

  Elżbieta gave a laugh – she’d never met Dominik in person but was familiar with his writing. She tapped a foot against the floor. Her stockings, the colour of moth wings, were bunched around her ankles. She took the handkerchief from me and said, ‘I know people. I can arrange for you to send word to Dominik. It will help you keep your spirits up. If you start getting depressed it’ll be easier for them to break you. I’ve seen it happen before.’

  Then Elżbieta got up from the bunk and said she had to leave. One of the inmates, a nun from Rawicz, was holding a sermon in the prison courtyard. I was welcome to attend.

  After agonising about the phone call to Father for a couple more days, I decided I couldn’t avoid it any longer. I approached a guard who was sitting in the dining room, his legs splayed on a plastic chair, a newspaper in his lap. I asked if I could make a call. ‘Telephone’s out of order.’ He lifted his newspaper and turned the page.

  ‘I have this.’ I passed him the chocolate bar from Dominik.

  He inspected the wrapper. ‘Fruit … I prefer plain.’ He slipped it into his pocket. ‘The other phone might be working.’ I followed him to the phone near the kitchen, which was being used by an older woman, smartly dressed in a cream jacket and skirt. When she finished speaking the guard handed me the phone. ‘You’ve got two minutes.’

  The guard hulked nearby as I flicked through the telephone book. I ran my finger down the list of names until I found it the details for the village abattoir. I wished there was someone else I could call – Pani Wedel wasn’t the sort of person I wanted to reveal my problems to. But Father and I had always lived a cloistered life. Unfortunately, there was no one else.

  I dialled. The phone rang once before someone picked it up. ‘I’m listening,’ announced a crisp woman’s voice.

  ‘Pani Wedel?’

  ‘She’s busy.’

  I cupped my hand around the mouthpiece. ‘Please,’ I said, ‘it’s Pani Skowrońska. I need to speak to Pani Wedel.’

  ‘Call back tomorrow. She’s in meetings all day.’

  ‘Please.’ I clenched the receiver. ‘It’s a family matter. Very urgent. Please.’

  A sigh on the other end of the phone. ‘Just wait.’

  Next to me, the guard tapped his watch. When Pani Wedel picked up the phone, I talked fast, telling her that I’d been interned and needed to get a message to Father.

  ‘Oh Ania.’ In the background, I heard her dismiss the other person. ‘Your father tried to phone you at university. They said you hadn’t been there in weeks.’

  ‘I’m in a tricky situation …’

  ‘Your father’s sick,’ she said. ‘It’s his lungs. You need to come home.’

  The guard rapped the telephone with his knuckles. ‘Wind it up.’

  I turned away from him, shielding my face. ‘How long has Father … How long has he had this problem?’

  ‘The doctors say it’s been years,’ she said. ‘Though it wasn’t detected until last summer.’

  Last summer … Had he really kept it to himself all this time? Surely I would have seen that he was il
l. I thought back to when we’d spoken about his doctor’s appointments. Just a cold, he had said.

  ‘Ania, I don’t know what what’s going on with you, but your father needs you right now.’

  I started to ask Pani Wedel what else she knew, but the guard reached over and with his thick fingers, hung up the phone.

  21

  That night I lay on my bunk listening to the sounds of my cell: the coughing and muttering of women and the creaking of springs on beds. The woman next to me was lying belly-up and her mouth made long gasping sounds, like she was being pulled out of water. I pressed myself against the wall, seeking the cool concrete. What did Elżbieta say, that in here we were fed nothing but lies? Perhaps Pani Wedel was in on it. She wasn’t a bad person. She had a soft spot for Father, that was certain. Nonetheless she had a grasping nature, an inclination to want to please people in power. Surely that was how she’d held onto that prestigious job of hers.

  If only I’d gone home sooner. The thought of Father being ill made my heart tumble in my chest. His lungs, Pani Wedel had said. And there was the doctor’s report. Prognosis fatal.

  When the too-fast beating of my heart steadied to a tolerable pace, I sat up. It was impossible to sleep. I wriggled to the end of the mattress and climbed down from the bunk.

  I stood beneath the small, barred window and lit a cigarette. When the embers scorched my lips I threw it to the toilet bowl. Too alert to sleep, I stretched out on the concrete floor and, glad of the discomfort, waited for morning.

  This time the Colonel didn’t leave me waiting.

  I, Anna Izabela Skowrońska, confess to undertaking criminal activities contrary to the interests of my country.

  The dotted line awaited my signature.

  ‘It’s all very simple,’ the Colonel said. ‘Your travel papers are in here.’ He pushed an envelope my way. ‘If you get the afternoon train,’ he glanced at the clock on his wall, ‘you’ll be home well before curfew.’

  There was a coffee pot on the table and, instinctively, I held my hand to my face.

  I herein renounce my associations with known or suspected criminals and pledge my loyalty to the Polish People’s Republic.

  It was the tone of Pani Wedel’s voice that did it. The urgency when she told me I had to come home. And yet, even now I wondered: was she lying?

  The Colonel informed me that my scholarship had been revoked and I’d been expelled from university. I wondered if the same thing had happened to Dominik. A heavy feeling bloomed in my chest. How could I tell him what I’d done?

  I pledge to cooperate with the personnel representing the People’s Republic, alerting them to any criminal or suspicious activities undertaken by people of my acquaintance.

  My name appeared reluctantly on the dotted line. Anna Izabela. There was a rush of heat through my body and then I started to shiver. The Colonel, sitting behind his desk, loomed in and out of focus. I dug my fingernails into my palm and then readjusted the pen in my hand. Skowrońska.

  The Colonel inspected the document. ‘Go over it again,’ he said. ‘The writing’s too faint. We need your name nice and clear so it’ll show up in the copies.’ I gave him a questioning look. ‘A copy for each of your files,’ he said.

  I retraced the letters of my name. It didn’t look like my usual handwriting, which was evenly sized and spaced. This writing was crooked and uncertain, like the first carving I had done as a child.

  ‘You’ve got ten minutes to collect your belongings,’ a guard said.

  ‘I don’t need anything.’ I couldn’t face my cellmates. I already had my engagement ring, the note from Dominik and the hospital report about Father. Everything else could be left behind.

  As the guard escorted me out, I kept my head down, moving quickly behind him. He led me towards the dining room. It was filling up for breakfast.

  ‘We can go the other way.’ I pointed to the nearby hall, where there would be fewer people.

  The guard gave me a scornful look. ‘No we can’t.’ He marched me through the dining room, where the enquiring looks of the other women burned my cheeks. Elżbieta was there. She locked eyes with me and, as she realised, a look of disgust came over her face. She shook her head.

  I’m sorry, I wanted to say. And also, You would have done the same.

  22

  Our house was bigger than I remembered. In my imagination I could fit it in the palm of my hand and take it with me to Wrocław, to prison. Yet here it was, stoutly holding its place between the field of globeflowers on one side and the dilapidated factory on the other.

  The gate creaked open. I walked down the garden path. Father would be in the work shed, chipping away at stone. He would tell me that it wasn’t as bad as I’d thought. Pani Wedel had got it wrong or perhaps she had lied.

  I looked through the windows of the shed. The lights were off so I guessed that he must be in the house, eating dinner. The front door was unlocked and I pushed it open and called over the sound of the television. ‘Father!’

  ‘Ania?’ His voice sounded thick in his throat.

  He was in his room. When he heaved himself up from the bed I saw that he’d lost more weight. Despite this, the skin on his face had a bloated appearance. There were patches of skin on his skull where there used to be hair. The shock of it dragged at my temples and I thought: he’s dying.

  I stretched my mouth into a smile. ‘It’s so good to see you.’

  ‘Aniusieńka.’ When Father hugged me I could feel the bones in his back. He gripped me to his chest, his moustache tickling my cheek. I pulled out of the hug and he wiped his eyes and lowered himself to the bed. His breath made a cracking sound.

  I fought to steady my voice. ‘Tomorrow we’ll go to the markets, buy some vegetables. I’ll make you soup.’

  He took a raspy breath and shook his head. ‘Nothing tastes good anymore, słoneczko.’ He beat his chest with his fist. ‘These stupid lungs.’ He cast me a sideways glance. ‘And before you say it’s the cigarettes, it’s not. It’s my time in the army that did it. The doctor says that’s probably where they had the asbestos. Cheap materials and cheap labour to go with it, hey? That’s the way of the world, Ania, people are disposable.’

  ‘We’ll see the doctor tomorrow,’ I said. ‘What about a health resort? We could go to the mountains, get some fresh air.’

  Father put his hand on my knee. ‘They’re giving me these treatments. Not that they’re doing any good.’ He lit a cigarette and blew the smoke towards the ceiling.

  I snatched it from him and stubbed it in an ashtray by the bed. ‘You’re going to be fine.’

  Usually Father was up at five to feed the chickens, drink tea and listen to the radio. He said it was the best time of day, that dark hour when no one else was around. By the time I got up, around seven or eight, I would find sliced bread and honey on the table. As the sun brightened the sky, I would eat breakfast and then join Father in the work shed.

  For the first time that I could remember, Father was still in bed when I rose. In the daylight I saw that there were plastic bottles of pills on the kitchen windowsill. Each one with his name on it.

  It was ten o’clock when he got up. As he shuffled out of his bedroom, he clicked his suspenders onto the waistband of his trousers. I tried to adjust to this new Father, who was hollowed-out and pale. Soup was what he needed. Or maybe I could convince him to go to a doctor in the city, get a second opinion.

  He sat at the table and turned on the radio. Classical music swelled into the room. He prodded his glass of tea. ‘I’ve told you about my troubles, now what about yours?’

  I inspected the cupboard. ‘We’re nearly out of margarine. I’ll go to the markets today, see what they have.’

  Father rubbed his eyes and then, with some difficulty, gulped his tea. I sat down with him and looked out the window at the chickens scratching in the yard.

  He said, ‘You turn up wearing those old rags. You don’t have any luggage … And those papers on your desk, they
look very official.’

  ‘Father! You went through my things.’

  He scratched his cheek. ‘They gave you my doctor’s report so you know everything. Now tell me what happened to you.’

  I dug the heels of my hands into my eyes. Without looking at him, I told him about the exhibition, the article, and prison. About the papers I’d signed.

  When I finished talking, Father sighed. ‘It goes to show what a rotten country we live in, when a good girl like you can get into trouble like that. There’s no future here.’ He pushed himself up from his chair. Steadying himself by holding onto the wall, he went to the adjoining bedroom. He returned with a small velvet pouch and tossed it my way. I untied the slippery rope around its neck and peered inside, at the chains and rings of gold.

  Father said, ‘You remember that Wiśniewski boy? He was a year above you at school. He’s gone to Canada. His mother was telling me stories about his life over there. Aniusieńka, he lives in a house big enough for three families. He’s got a job, money, everything he needs.’

  I carved a slice of bread. ‘What I need is to stay here and take care of you. And Dominik, when he gets out.’

  Father muttered something that I didn’t catch.

  I dropped the piece of bread on his plate and said, ‘I’m getting married, remember.’

  23

  It didn’t take me long to understand that news of Father’s illness was widespread. Every time I made a trip to the markets, people asked after his health. My response was to say he was doing well. At this, they looked vaguely disappointed and murmured, ‘That’s good to hear.’ In these parts, there was nothing so invigorating as a tragic piece of gossip.

  After another gruelling excursion, during which I’d had to ward off the collective pity of the village, I was relieved to be home. Father was in his room, sleeping. He’d had another blood transfusion yesterday and instead of making him feel better, it had left him weak. We’d had an argument after he said that he didn’t want to go to the hospital anymore.