After the worshipers had gone, Grandpa Sergei raised his head and said, “Thank God for this mercy.” Yanek didn’t count the money. He put the bills in a handkerchief, tied it, and gave it to Grandpa Sergei.
31
In the mountains the villages are smaller. The churches are low, and the houses are roofed with red tiles.
“Where are we heading?” asked Yanek.
“The time has come to taste mountain air and to prepare for the ascent to the monastery of Saint Mary.”
While they were advancing, a short woman emerged from one of the houses, turned to Grandpa Sergei, and asked, “Where are you from, brothers, and where are you going?”
Grandpa Sergei was surprised by that warm greeting and said, “To the monastery of Saint Mary.”
“May God bless you.”
“May He bless you, too.”
“Wouldn’t you like to taste the soup I just cooked?”
“With pleasure,” Grandpa Sergei replied.
The house was small, the inside walls were decorated with icons and flowers. The woman seated them at the table and said, “I’ll go to get soup for the guests that God sent me.”
Before long she brought two wooden bowls full of steaming soup as well as brown bread, and she said, “May God abide in your meal.”
“Thank you,” said Grandpa Sergei.
The soup was hot, and all the garden vegetables were in it.
When they finished eating, their host asked them, “Would you like some more?”
“By your grace,” answered Grandpa Sergei.
“Where are you from?”
“Originally I’m from the village of Ivanov. I served in the army for many years. After my service I lived in the city and married. God took my wife from me when she was only twenty-eight. Only later did I understand what God had taken from me, and I started wandering to atone for my sins. And what’s your name, if I may ask.”
“Magda,” she said, immediately adding, “For years I was a servant with the Jews. When I turned fifty I decided to return to my parents’ house.”
“And how are your parents?”
“They’ve passed away.”
“May they rest in peace.”
“I have some meatballs. May I serve them to you?”
“Willingly,” said Grandpa Sergei.
Yanek looked around him: he’d never seen a house like that or a woman like that. The thought occurred to him that maybe she was an exalted angel who had been sent to help and nourish them. But her face and hands were like those of a woman who loves to serve and was pleased when people ate her food. There were no evident signs that she was an angel.
Grandpa Sergei asked, “Was it good for you with the Jews?”
“They appreciated my work and were fond of me.”
“And where are they now?”
“God knows.”
They rose to their feet, and Grandpa Sergei said, “May God bless you for this charity.”
“May God bless your path,” she said with her head inclined.
So they set out.
Yanek was curious to hear Grandpa Sergei’s opinion about that special woman, but apparently Grandpa Sergei hadn’t yet formed an opinion.
After walking for an hour, when they sat at the foot of an oak tree, he said, “It’s good to meet a woman like Magda.”
“Is she a messenger from God?” Yanek dared to ask.
“Her deeds testify that she preserves the image of God.”
“You can’t see that she’s different from other people.”
“You mustn’t depend on your eyes. They don’t always see the truth.”
Yanek made a fire, prepared a cup of tea for Grandpa Sergei, and lit his pipe, and he remembered that Magda had asked, “Where are you from, brothers, and where are you going?”
“No one in our long wanderings has ever called us ‘brothers,’” said Yanek.
“That’s another sign that we’re not alone here,” said Grandpa Sergei. “We’ll sleep here tonight, and tomorrow we’ll figure out what to do. Many years ago I used to wander among these villages. I was a young soldier, ambitious and outstanding. One night, when we were tired after training and far from the base, we entered the monastery and asked if we could buy bread and cheese from the monks. The monks greeted us graciously, spread cloths on the long wooden tables, served us everything they had in the pantry, and they finished by bringing us good coffee, whose taste I can feel in my mouth to this day.
“After the meal, the abbot of the monastery said: ‘Good, loyal soldiers. You protect us from robbers and trespassers, and this is an opportunity to thank you. Whenever you’re hungry, come to us. We’ll give you everything we have. You’re going out tonight to guard our fields and orchards. May God protect you.’
“Then we were like young horses. We didn’t know what life was yet. We leaped and ran and competed with each other: who can run faster, who can lift heavier weights, who risks his life with the greatest daring. Our bodies celebrated their youth, but our souls were still soft. I remembered the prayers in my parents’ church. I remembered my father and mother kneeling in prayer. While I was living in my parents’ house, I went to pray with them. The moment I joined the army, the training and forced marches filled me up. After basic training we were already like trained dogs. It’s dangerous to run into them.
“That’s how my first years in the army went. After-ward reality showed its face: my friends died in the line of duty, there were funerals, meetings with bereaved parents, and pains and grief. I looked for God, but I didn’t see Him. I lost my way for many years. It wasn’t till my Dorka was snatched away from me that the words of the prayers began to rise up on my lips.
“I have to add: your grandfather, Michael, also helped me to escape the morass. He was a true servant of God, and I made a point of observing the way he moved. His whole being spoke of the brotherhood of God. You bear his name, and I pray in my heart that he will watch over you and raise you up.”
Hardly had the words left Grandpa Sergei’s mouth before tears burst from Yanek’s eyes.
Grandpa Sergei heard the weeping and said, “We’re in good hands.”
Without saying anything, Yanek curled up with Prince and lay his head on the sack.
32
Yanek woke up early and went out for his morning run. When he returned, he revived the campfire, made a cup of tea for Grandpa Sergei, and lit his pipe for him, and at the same time he also told him the truth: “We only have a little cornmeal.”
“Thank God for that, too. There were days when we didn’t even have a crumb.” Grandpa Sergei’s faith was firm, and it constantly grew.
Meanwhile a peasant passed by, and Grandpa Sergei asked him, “Where’s the village grocery store?”
“To your right, not far from here. What do you want to buy?”
“Food.”
“Are you a wanderer?”
“I’m a man, and my name is Sergei.”
The peasant fixed his gaze on him and, without saying another word, went on his way.
Grandpa Sergei sank into his thoughts, and Yanek made porridge. After they ate and were silent together, Grandpa Sergei said, “Let’s take a fifty-mark bill from the money your father left with us. Go to the grocery store and buy food.”
Yanek didn’t delay and set out.
There were no customers in the grocery store, and Yanek asked for bread and cheese.
“How will you pay?” asked the woman at the counter.
“I have fifty marks.”
“We don’t accept German occupation money anymore,” she said.
“Why not?”
“The Germans are retreating.”
“So how can I buy?”
“With new clothes and valuables.”
Stunned, Yanek returned to Grandpa Sergei. Grandpa Sergei listened and then said, “That’s good news. Your parents and grandparents will return from exile.”
Then Yanek said, “I have an idea: I’ll take one of
my sweaters, and in return I’ll buy food.”
“And what will you wear on cold nights?”
“I have another sweater.”
When Yanek went back to the store, Grandpa Sergei didn’t tell him, “bargain.” He knew. Yanek stood up for himself. He wasn’t easily cheated.
Yanek showed his sweater to the owner of the grocery store and asked, “What will you give me for it?”
“Where did you get that sweater?”
“Grandpa knitted it for me.”
“You didn’t steal it?”
“No. It’s forbidden to steal.”
She picked the sweater up again, examined it, and said, “I’ll give you a loaf of bread and a piece of cheese for it.”
“Is that all?”
“I’ll add a sack of potatoes.”
“I’m not asking for meat, but won’t you add some vegetables?”
“I’ll give you some, but don’t ask for any more,” she said and it was clear that she liked the sweater.
She placed the supplies on the counter.
Before putting the groceries in his basket, he said, “Could you please give me a little salt?”
She gave him some grudgingly.
They celebrated at lunchtime. Grandpa Sergei was amused, saying, “Sometimes God sends us Magda, and sometimes your sweater saves us.”
While they were sitting, relaxed, under the tree, they heard the screams of a helpless person. Yanek ran to see: on the slope, on the dirt road, stood a tall wanderer, and boys were throwing stones at him and cursing him. Yanek watched that horrible scene, stored up anger, and with a great rush he went down. The boys immediately sensed what they could expect and ran off. Yanek was going to run after them, but he preferred to see what they had done to the miserable wanderer.
The wanderer was on his knees. His face and hands were bleeding. With difficulty he managed to get some words out, just muttering: “They threw stones at me.”
“Come with me. I’ll wash your face and give you something to eat.”
“No need. I’ll be on my way. I’m used to it.”
“Come,” Yanek repeated. “My grandpa and I are sitting under the tree. We won’t take anything from you.”
“Leave me alone,” he said, wiping his face with his sleeve. That gesture, which was meant to wipe off the blood, only opened the wounds again.
“Come to us. We have iodine,” Yanek said.
“I’ll be on my way,” said the wanderer, without any signs of courtesy.
Yanek left him and retraced his steps.
As he drew near the tree he heard a voice calling, “Wait a minute.”
“What do you want?” asked Yanek.
“I’ll come to you,” said the wanderer and started to climb up.
When he was standing near the tree, his face was covered with blood, and he breathed with difficulty. Yanek didn’t delay. He washed the man’s face with a thin cloth and spread iodine on his wounds.
The man recovered, looked around him, and asked, “Who are you?”
“Wanderers like you,” answered Grandpa Sergei.
“Do they throw stones at you?”
“They do.”
“So what to you do?”
“I’m blind, but my grandson, Yanek, is brave and teaches them a lesson.”
“If only I had the strength to run after them.”
“Where are you heading?” asked Grandpa Sergei.
“To the monastery of Saint Mary. I committed a grave sin against my father. I ignored his sickness and old age, and he died all alone. That heavy sin won’t give me any rest. Thank you for taking me in and treating my wounds. I’m going on my way. They say that in a day or a day and a half you can get to the monastery. I have just one desire: to stay in the monastery for two or three days and die in the courtyard.”
The man rose to his feet and went on his way. His height and his face remained for a while before they disappeared.
33
The nights are cold in the mountains at this season. Yanek wears a sweater and long underwear, but the cold still penetrates his bones. Grandpa Sergei doesn’t complain. He sleeps on the plain and in the mountains, and he knows that in the early winter the winds in the mountains are sharp, and only a canvas army jacket keeps it out.
Yanek attends to a mission he set for himself: from where they stopped, he overlooks the roads. If boys attack wanderers, he lunges toward them and drives them away. Sometimes he catches one of them, slaps his face, and forces him to ask forgiveness from the wanderer he was tormenting.
One of the wanderers called out, “No one ever ran to rescue me before. Take this scarf, to protect you from the cold.”
“Thanks,” said Yanek, but he didn’t take it.
“Who are you?” he asked Yanek.
“I’m Grandpa Sergei’s grandson.”
The wanderer was stunned by his answer, asked nothing more, and went on his way.
After returning to the tree and to Grandpa Sergei, he went to the nearby glade to gather mushrooms. Once he had gone to the woods with his mother to gather mushrooms. She had taught him to distinguish toadstools from edible mushrooms. They stepped cautiously on the moist earth, and suddenly a small swarm of mushrooms peeked out of the brown fallen leaves. His mother would kneel down and put them in a straw basket one by one.
The memory made him dizzy, and he halted his legs.
Yanek found an abundance of mushrooms. When he had filled the bag he ran back to Grandpa Sergei and told him about the treasure he had found. Grandpa Sergei heard and said, “Today we’ll eat like kings.”
Later Yanek asked, “Where will we go now?”
“We’ll go to the Monastery of Saint Mary. Lots of pilgrims climb up to it in this season. I assume that they won’t let us into the sanctuary with our bundles.”
“Are we rejected?” asked Yanek.
“God loves wanderers. Satisfied, arrogant people aren’t desired by Him. God brings near those who are in pain.”
“Is that how it always was?”
“I believe so.”
Later, with a smile, Grandpa Sergei added, “In the army you learn not to ask too much, but to act. Action comes before questions. Instead of asking about justice, it’s better to do justice.”
In his heart Yanek knew that Grandpa Sergei wanted to strengthen him to do justice. Every humble wanderer, for whom a helpful hand comes from somewhere, is fortified in his faith in humanity, and in a difficult hour he himself will extend a hand to one of his wanderer brethren.
Every day more wanderers gather, cripples and people with skin disease, making their way to the Monastery of Saint Mary. Respectable pilgrims also walk alongside the miserable ones. This silent procession, which advances slowly and heavily, captivated Yanek’s eyes and for a long time he stood still and observed it.
“A lot of wanderers are going up to Saint Mary,” he told Grandpa Sergei.
“This is the pilgrimage season.”
The pilgrims walked silently, without violence.
“Are they talking about the war?” asked Grandpa Sergei.
“I didn’t hear them talk.”
But at night they hear dull, heavy sounds. Grandpa Sergei has no doubt, the Red Army is approaching them. Yanek knows, Grandpa Sergei doesn’t spread conjectures or fictions. He only says what he knows or believes. No wonder the soldiers in his unit followed him through fire and water.
That night Grandpa Sergei spoke a lot about the soldiers in his unit and about the power they projected. The moment the signal was given, they mounted their horses and set off at a gallop. Forty horses were a mighty force. The earth trembled beneath them.
People would cheer for them from far and near. Everybody know they were setting out on a rescue mission.
Once a flour mill bust into flames, and the unit arrived and immediately stormed the building. A lot of people were trapped in it. The unit broke down the doors. Some of them put out the fire with water, some of them scattered sand, and some of them m
ade their way through the smoke and took out the people who were trapped. The medics tried to save lives, and indeed they did save quite a few people. At the end of the operation, seven corpses lay on the ground, including a well-liked soldier, Peter, a courageous fighter who was always the first to take risks.
Those who were saved — and many people were saved — hugged the soldiers and wept in their arms. Everyone cheered them: “Because of soldiers like these, there’s a reason to live. Because of them, we know how to love.”
“We wrapped our beloved Peter in the flag of the unit and put him one one of the horses, returning to the base in a funeral march. We performed dozens of missions like that,” Grandpa Sergei finished and immediately sank into himself.
34
At night the voices spoke to Yanek: “Yanek, Grandpa Sergei trained you to be a warrior. Tomorrow you will receive the pistol. From now on, you will have to lead the campaign: one against the many. This is a noble war. The masses mustn’t infect you with fear. The masses have no face, they’re a herd. In the coming days you’ll have to protect many wanderers, lost people, in pain. Don’t be afraid. Your parents are with you. Your grandparents are with you, and the God of justice is on your side. You will raise the helpless up from the dust. This will make Grandpa Sergei’s heart proud, along with all those in whose hearts the candle of God is lit.”
Yanek woke up. Those clear words still floated before his eyes, and, amazingly, he remembered them. In his heart he know that a great mission had been entrusted to him, maybe one beyond his ability. For a moment he was alarmed, but he recovered immediately, approached Grandpa Sergei and told him about the dream. Grandpa Sergei listened and said, “May God be with you.” He said nothing more.
That very morning some boys gathered and threw stones at the wanderers. Yanek, fortified by the night’s dream, went down and fell upon them. They sensed his determined wrath and fled. But one of them, in his flight, threw a stone that hit Yanek on the shoulder. Yanek didn’t back off. He ran after them until he caught one of them, slapped his face, and forced him to say, “I’m a criminal. I sinned before God and before the wanderer.”
Long Summer Nights Page 10