by Marek Hlasko
“All of us,” the cell replied.
The bald man added: “And don’t you try to bother anyone. You were very drunk, and you don’t remember what you said last night. If I were to repeat it, you’d be in serious trouble. If you know what’s good for you, keep quiet.”
Franciszek stepped back. Hatred cast a mist over his eyes; he crouched, ready to spring at the bald giant, but at that moment the door creaked again, and Franciszek automatically turned his head.
“Kowalski,” the lieutenant said. “Come along.”
He was led down the corridor, to the room where he had been taken the previous night. Now, in daylight, it looked even grayer and uglier than before, when it was lighted by a bright, unshaded bulb hanging in the middle of the ceiling. At the desk the corporal’s seat was occupied by the round-faced man in plain clothes. Next to him was the sergeant who had escorted him to the police station. He looked very tired; his young face was pale, and he had rings under his eyes. The three of them—the lieutenant, the man in plain clothes, and the sergeant—were unshaven; during the night the sergeant’s round cheeks had grown as downy as ripe peaches, and neither his uniform nor his heavy gun added to his dignity.
The man in civilian clothes raised his eyes from the papers spread on the desk. “Well, Kowalski, here you are.” His voice expressed sincere worry. “It looks bad for you.”
Franciszek was silent; frowning, he leaned against the railing, and looked at the man in plain clothes.
“Bad,” the other repeated. Then, shaking his head, “You’re really in hot water.”
“What the devil have I done?” Franciszek asked.
“What’s the matter, aren’t you satisfied?” the lieutenant asked. Pushing out his chin, he stared at Franciszek with the expression of a little boy getting ready to fight.
“I want to know what I have done,” Franciszek said.
“And I want you to tell me,” the lieutenant said, “whether you like it or not.”
“Yes,” the sergeant threw in, “tell us: Don’t you like it? What? Do you like it or don’t you?”
“A party member,” said the man in plain clothes, spreading his hands. “A former partisan, an officer, and—well? Just to look at you, Kowalski, one would say you’re decent, quiet, probably a good comrade. But when we probe deeper, we find an enemy. You’ve unmasked yourself, Kowalski …” He gave the pile of papers a push. “That’s the way it looks,” he said. “You’ve unmasked yourself, and that’s that.”
“Me?” Franciszek stammered. “Unmasked myself? What is this all about?”
“Maybe you don’t like it here,” the sergeant said. “Tell us: Don’t you like the regime? Or maybe the police?”
The man in plain clothes rose from his seat. His legs wide apart, he looked straight into Franciszek’s eyes. “You have insulted the party,” he said calmly. “You have insulted the uniform of the People’s police. You have insulted the People’s Poland. You abused the party and the People’s government in such language that I’m ashamed to repeat it. All this was taken down verbatim. Do you remember that? You, a party member, as your papers show, you have insulted our government, our People’s regime. By this token you have shown what you really are, Mister Kowalski. Be good enough to read this, and sign it, Mister Kowalski. Then you’ll pay the fine and you’ll go home. We’ll inform the secretary of the party organization. We’ll send him a copy of the record. And now—please.” He handed Franciszek a sheet of paper and a pen.
“My God,” Franciszek stammered, “is it possible?” His knees were trembling, and his heart was pounding somewhere in his throat.
“Pretend that it is,” the lieutenant said. He cast a glance at Franciszek, who was as pale as a sheet, and grinned crookedly. “Stop play-acting,” he said sharply. “You think one thing and you say another. We’re not here to be taken in by such tricks. One day you shout obscenities in the streets; the next day you’ll be a spy. Read this, please, and sign.”
“But I couldn’t possibly have shouted like that!” Franciszek cried. “There’s some mistake. I refuse to believe that I said such things.”
“I heard you,” the sergeant said. “And if you don’t like it, just say so.”
“I don’t think that way.”
“You shouted that way,” said the man in plain clothes. “These are your words. I am ashamed to repeat them, party comrade.”
“What a sober man thinks in his heart a drunk says with his tongue,” the lieutenant said. “Surely no one knows that better than you.”
“A mistake,” Franciszek said hoarsely. He raised his hand to his forehead as though he were going blind. “A mistake.”
“That’s right,” said the man in plain clothes. “You made a mistake. You made a mistake if you thought the enemy can never be unmasked.”
Franciszek glanced at the paper he had been handed. He tried to read it, but the letters blurred before his eyes into a single formless mass. Suddenly he had the feeling that everything around him was unreal, make-believe. He closed his eyes; on opening them after a moment, he saw the lieutenant bending over him. A little farther off stood the man in plain clothes, and next to him, the sergeant. Their faces showed nothing but contempt.
“Here,” the lieutenant said, pointing to the place where he had to sign.
“I—” Franciszek began. He stopped suddenly. He realized that he was at the end of his rope, and that he would not be able to say a word to justify himself before these men. In the corridor someone was banging his fists on the door, roaring, “Let me out! Let me out!” Franciszek thought: “I’ve got to get out of here, get out at any cost.” He picked up the pen, and signed. The lieutenant took the paper from his hands and threw it on the desk.
Later, as they returned his things, he could see the policemen talking to him, but their words were no more distinct than the buzzing of a fly. A void opened within him, and he could not find a single thought to fill it with; he put on his necktie, laced his shoes, and buckled his belt, moving like a sleepwalker. Not until the lieutenant had opened the door did he hear the man in plain clothes say to him, “So long, Mister Kowalski.”
And he found himself in the street.
V
THE ICY WIND BLOWING FROM THE VISTULA revived him a little; the day was misty and cold, and the pale sun glistening feebly on the damp roofs carried not a hint of spring; no one would have suspected that the sap was already gathering under the bare branches of the trees. He walked fast, straight ahead, his crumpled overcoat unbuttoned; he had no idea where he was going; he was filled with only one desire—to get as far away as possible from the scene of his nocturnal ordeal. “The whole thing is a stupid accident,” he muttered to himself. “It’s perfectly insane. Everything will be cleared up soon; damn it all, it must be cleared up! I’ll settle the matter right away; I’ll go to see whatever person I have to …” He caught the amused glances of the passers-by, and realized that he had been talking to himself; he buttoned his overcoat and slowed his pace.
In the window of a little shop he saw a sign, TELEPHONE. He pushed the door open and entered; the shop bell above the door tinkled shrilly. Out of the darkness came the smell of stale vegetables. A young girl was standing at the telephone; Franciszek moved aside.
“What can I do for you,” asked the proprietor, unshaven, in a dirty smock.
Franciszek pointed to the girl: “I want to use the phone …”
The proprietor gave a grunt of disappointment, and buried his dark face in the newspaper. “We Are Advancing Toward …” a headline screamed. After a moment he turned the page. “Yesterday’s speech caused wide repercussions …” The girl was chirping into the receiver, her lips curving deliciously: “Dzidka? Impossible! Is that so?… It’s true, she always … I don’t want to say anything mean about her, but it’s only what you’d expect …”
The bell above the door tinkled. Franciszek shuddered as though touched by an electric current. A boy came in; his sharp eyes glinted under the visor of his c
ap. He put a jar on the counter. “Milk and half a pound of butter.”
“… Dzidka? With Romek? Yes, I always …”
“There’s no milk. I have potatoes.”
“… I’ve always said …”
“And the butter?”
“No butter. I’ll have Brussels sprouts this afternoon.”
“I’ll telephone, and the whole thing will be cleared up,” Franciszek thought. He looked resentfully at the girl’s little painted mouth. “I’ll telephone; I’ll go to the factory, and everything will be settled.”
“And lard?”
“No lard, but I have potatoes.”
“… I’ve always said to Stefan, ‘Look out, you can never tell what she might do’ …”
“When will you have butter?”
“How the devil do I know? I told you what there is. Now get out!”
The bell tinkled again, startling Franciszek; the boy walked out. He ran across the street, splashing through a puddle; his shoes were at least three sizes too big for him. “Fool,” thought Franciszek in irritation; “some day he’ll break his leg.” He glanced at his watch: he was already an hour late; he must telephone …
“… you know me, you know I never say bad things about my girl friends; but in this case … What? It isn’t Dzidka? I know it isn’t Dzidka, of course not. But to get back to Wladka …”
He put his hand on her shoulder; she turned around. “Three minutes,” he snapped. “Enough.”
“Can’t you be polite?”
“Can’t you grow up?”
She flung some coins on the counter, and, looking at him with rage, walked out, slamming the door; once again the bell tinkled at the very center of his tired brain. The worn dial swung in its arc like a pendulum. “The Be-Kind-to-Animals Veterinary Home,” said a voice in the receiver. “Sorry, wrong number,” he muttered. In the end he managed to dial the right number; there was a continuous ringing—the busy signal. He hung up and leaned helplessly against the wall.
“She was a fresh little piece,” the proprietor said. “Nowadays the eggs are smarter than the hens. You speak to her politely, and she opens a mouth that—oh, well.” He waved his hand. “I was brought up differently. Once …”
Franciszek again dialed his number. When he heard the familiar voice of the switchboard operator, he breathed with relief.
“This is Kowalski. Connect me with the party office, please.”
Once again he heard the busy signal—this time it was a series of short rings.
“It’s busy.”
“I’ll wait.”
He pulled a chair over to him with his foot, and sat down. The proprietor put down his newspaper. “Yes, sir, I had to kiss my father’s hands,” he said. “The old man would say to me, ‘Janek’—my name is Jan—’you must obey your father, so your children will obey you later …’ ”
“Here’s your party,” the operator snapped. An instant later he heard a familiar voice: “Secretariat.”
“This is Kowalski,” Franciszek cried joyfully. “Is it you, Pawlak?”
“Yes. What’s on your mind?”
“Listen, I’ve had a little trouble. I was detained.”
“At the briefing?”
“No. In a police station.”
“In connection with our city-to-village campaign?”
“No, just detained.”
“Oh, I see—the deratization campaign.”
“No, no—a supposed case of intoxication.”
“But our delegate for the anti-drunkenness campaign is Cebulak. You are the city-to-village delegate.”
“Listen to me; it had nothing to do with any campaign …” He leered at the proprietor, who kept staring at him with red-ringed eyes. “I—I—” he stammered. “It was personal …”
The voice in the receiver rose a tone higher. “You can act on your own, Comrade Kowalski, after the campaign. You’re the city-to-village campaign delegate, and that’s that. This must not happen again.”
“All right,” said Franciszek. “I’ll come right over and explain. Goodbye.”
“Goodbye.”
Franciszek was hot; he felt himself suddenly drenched with sweat from his shirt down to his socks. He counted out the coins for the call. “A bottle of orangeade,” he said.
The proprietor smiled with good-natured irony, as though to say, “Brother, who do you think you’re kidding?”
“I haven’t got any,” he said. “There may be some kvass—”
“All right, make it kvass.”
“I was saying there may be some kvass this afternoon. I have a bit of milk for my own personal use; I can let you have some.”
“That’s even better.”
The proprietor tittered.
“What are you laughing about?”
“Here’s your milk. I always try to understand everybody.” And while Franciszek drank, the proprietor went on: “Don’t take what happened to you too hard. They locked you up, and they let you go. I was locked up in 1945. I was in with a Russian major, a deserter, who had escaped dressed like a chimney sweep. ‘Don’t you ever get upset by anything, Vania,’ he said to me—for my name is Jan—‘don’t be upset. Whatever they ask you, say you don’t know. As for me, Vania’—my name is Jan—‘this is the twenty-third time I’ve been locked up …’ ”
Franciszek put down his glass. “What do I owe you?”
“Wait a minute, I’ll finish my story. ‘You see, Vania,’ he said, ‘that’s how many times I’ve been in jail.’ ”
“I’m in a hurry,” Franciszek said. He glanced at the proprietor’s unshaven face, and realized only then that this was how he too must look. “What do I owe you?” he shouted.
“Three-forty.”
He paid and walked out.
“Hey, mister.”
He turned around. The proprietor was waving to him with a mysterious expression. His stare was so compelling that Franciszek walked up to him, spellbound.
“I’ll have coffee this afternoon …”
Once again he ran in his unbuttoned overcoat through the wet, muddy streets. He stopped suddenly. “And me?” he thought. “My name is Franciszek—” He heard the furious screech of brakes behind him, and jumped aside.
“What are you waiting for?” the driver screamed, “For applause?”
“For socialism,” someone said on the sidewalk. The crowd roared with delight; Franciszek turned a bright red, and was about to answer something when he heard a familiar voice: “So you don’t like it here? Come on, speak up: what is it you don’t like?” He turned around: it was the same young sergeant who had picked him up the night before, and he was already reaching out for identification papers. Franciszek hunched his head between his shoulders and ran on in the direction of the tram stop, where a crowd of people were already lined up ahead of him in the rain.
VI
HE TURNED IN AT HIS FACTORY, AND ENTERED THE porter’s lodge. He thrust his card into the time clock, and it registered his tardiness. The mustachioed old porter walked up to him and, showing his yellowed teeth in a friendly smile, said, “The tramcar?”
“What tramcar?”
“You couldn’t get on the tramcar?”
“Why do you ask?”
“You’re late, Comrade Kowalski.” He sighed, and spread his hands. “I’ll have to keep your card,” he added sadly.
Franciszek handed him his card. “Too bad.”
He wanted to go, but the porter stopped him. “The best excuse you can give,” he said in a dramatic whisper, “is the tramcar.” He winked a brown eye; in the maze of white wrinkles it looked like a little star. “That can never be checked,” he whispered; “the cars are always in such a mess …”
Franciszek muttered something unintelligible and went out. He walked along a blackened wall of bricks covered with posters showing the faces of smiling Stakhanovites; of peasants, men and women, with sheaves of grain; of schoolboys and soldiers; of diversionists and traitorous priests; of kulaks and sabote
urs. They stared straight at his tired, unshaven face as though to ask, “Well, what now, my friend?” He had to close his eyes. Opening them, he saw before him a picture of an American soldier piercing a Korean child with his bayonet. The soldier looked like an orang-outang, and the child like a smaller species of monkey. He recoiled with a shudder, and almost groping his way reached the locker room. There he quickly put on a greasy gray apron, then went to the office of the party organization—it was situated in a barracks specially built by volunteer workers. He stopped before a door bearing a sign; once again he passed his hand over his unshaven face, smoothed his thinning hair, and, as though in an effort to master his weakness, knocked briskly.
“Come in,” a voice boomed.
Franciszek walked in. A corpulent man with a friendly face rose from his seat behind the desk. He had the clay-colored complexion of those who never get enough to eat, live in stuffy rooms, and breathe large amounts of stale smoke. His cheeks were pendulous and his eyes red from constant lack of sleep; most of the people entrusted with looking after the souls of others have such faces. He held out his hand—it was heavy and hairy, but it squeezed Franciszek’s warmly and cordially. “Take a seat,” he said. After Franciszek sat down, he asked, “Well, what’s the good word?”
“Good word?” Franciszek echoed. For a second he took the question to be ironical; then he looked at the secretary’s tired, kindly face, and suddenly the nightmare he had been through seemed to him unreal—more than that, ridiculous. “But the whole thing is absurd,” he thought. He sighed with relief: “Now at last I can have a sensible talk.” He smiled for the first time in many hours. “I’ve had a little trouble,” he said. “It was like this—”
There was a knock at the door. The secretary motioned to Franciszek to stop. “Just a minute … Come in.”
A young boy, with a childlike face and charming bristling hair, walked in. Seeing Franciszek, he stood shifting his weight from foot to foot, as though about to withdraw.
“Come here, Blizniaczek,” the First Secretary said cordially, and his heavy hand performed a circular motion. “Come closer; what the hell, sit down …” He pushed a chair over to the boy and gave him a friendly look. “What’s the matter? Do they teach you to behave like a little girl in the Young Communist League, or what? Sit down; speak up, openly, like one of us, a workingman …”