House of Day, House of Night

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House of Day, House of Night Page 28

by Olga Tokarczuk


  The barn was attached to it, not separate as it ought to be. There

  was a small yard paved with wide, flat stones, where the lilac was

  in bloom. They went on sitting in the wagon, no one daring to

  get down first. Bobol spat on the ground and stared into the windows of the house. Then he searched anxiously for the well, but couldn't see it anywhere; perhaps it was behind the house.

  Finally the jeep appeared and braked just in front of them.

  'Come on then,' said the man with the cigarette. 'It's yours

  now.'

  He stepped boldly up to the door, but seemed to hesitate

  slightly just before reaching it. He glanced over at them and

  rapped on it. Shortly after, the door opened and he went inside.

  They waited until he reappeared and impatiently urged them to

  follow him. 'Come on, what's the matter?'

  They began to unload their eiderdowns and pots from the

  cart. Bobol was the first to enter the hallway. It was dark inside,

  with an arched ceiling, and the familiar smell of cows. Shuffling

  in the silence, they went on into the main room and stood

  facing the windows, so at first they couldn't see anything

  because the light was in their eyes. The official lit a cigarette

  and said something in German . That was when they noticed

  the two women - one old and grey, the o ther younger, with a

  child on her arm; another child was huddling up to rhe older

  woman.

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  'You stay in this room, they go in that one,' said the official .

  They'll be coming for them later.' Then he walked past them and

  disappeared. They heard the jeep rattle off.

  They went on standing there, until a cat appeared out of

  nowhere, sat down in the middle of the room and began to lick

  its paws. The first to make a move was the old woman, who took

  the sheets and blankets from the bed and went into the other

  room, followed by the younger woman and the children. Then

  Mrs Bobol crashed about arranging her pots and pans on the

  kitchen range.

  They spent the rest of the morning unloadi ng their belongings from the cart. They didn't have much - a few items of clothing, some icons, the eiderdowns and some photographs in

  wooden frames. Mrs Bobol lit a fire in the peculiar range because

  she wanted to put on some soup, but she couldn't find the water.

  She went all round the house with her pot, and began to wonder

  whether they fetched water from the stream. Finally she plucked

  up the courage to peep into the other room where the German

  women were sitting. The younger one sprang to her feet at the

  sight of her.

  'Water,' said Mrs Bobol, and pointed at the pot.

  The younger woman moved towards the kitchen , but the

  older one growled at her. She stood still for a moment , as if hesitating, then reluctantly she showed Mrs Bobol a )eyer in the wall by the stove, on which Bobol had already hung up his trousers.

  She placed the pot under it and moved the lever up and down.

  Water flowed.

  'Help yourself to the stove - it's already lit ,' said Mrs Bohol to

  the woman.

  When the German woman brought a large pot of potatoes and

  set it on the hotplate, Mrs 13obol explained to her that it clearly

  said 'temporary evacuation' in their document s. mea n i ng that

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  O l ga To k a r c z u k

  they wouldn't be here for long, and that everyone was talking

  about the next war anyway. At this the woman burst into tears,

  without making a sound, swallowing her sobs, and as there was

  no way to comfort her, Mrs Bobol bit her lip and left the room.

  They spent the whole summer living together. The men

  quickly assembled their alcohol-making apparatus, and from

  then on a thin stream of vodka flowed continuously into cans and

  jugs. They began drinking in the early afternoon when the heat

  became unbearable and they didn't know what to do with themselves. The women made dinner together in virtual silence, exchanging single words and reluctantly, involuntarily picking up

  each others hateful language. The Poles eyed the Germans' habits

  with suspicion - how strangely they ate ! For breakfast they had

  a sort of milky soup, for dinner jacket potatoes with some cheese

  and butter, and on Sundays they killed a rabbit or some pigeons

  and made barley soup. For their second course they inevitably

  had noodles, then stewed fruit. The men went to the barns to

  inspect the Germans' farm machines, but they didn't know what

  they were for or how they worked. They'd squat outside arguing

  about it and drinking their horne-made vodka - that usually went

  on until evening. Finally someone would fetch an accordion, the

  women would come along and the dancing would begin. They

  turned that first summer into one long Polish holiday. Some of

  them were never sober. They just felt glad they had survived and

  had reached a destination somewhere, anywhere. It was better

  not to think about the future, because it was uncertain; better to

  sing duets, dance, make wild passionate love in the bushes, and

  not look those leftover Germans in the face, because it was all

  their fault - they were the ones who had sparked off the war and

  it was their fault the world had ended. Sometimes the Poles lost

  their temper and staggered horne, took down the Germans' holy

  icons and threw them behind the cupboard, smashing the glass.

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  237

  On the same nails they hung up their own , very similar, maybe

  identical Christs and Madonnas with bleeding hearts.

  In autumn, tired of celebrating, and disappointed that the

  authorities had forgotten them, they nailed together a cross and

  erected it at a fork in the road with the inscription : 'To the Lord

  God from the Poles.'

  The Poles didn't work that summer - while the Germans were

  still there they didn't have to. They gave the Germans exactly

  what they deserved - after all, it wasn't the Poles' fault they had

  ended up here, it hadn't been their idea to leave their extensive

  fields in the east and spend two months wandering about. They

  had never asked for these strange, stone houses. The German

  women milked the cows and mucked out the cowshed, then

  went to the fields or did the cleaning, scared, stooping and

  silent. They were only allowed to rest on Sundays, so they put

  on their best clothes, white gloves and all, and went to church to

  redeem their sinful German souls.

  In autumn the official came back for the German women ,

  and told them t o get ready t o leave. The young woman excitedly

  started bundling up her belongings, but the older one sat on the

  bed and didn't react. Next morning they were standing outside

  waiting. M rs Bobol gave them dripping for the journey. and fe lt

  glad they would have an extra room now. At last a man came and

  told them in German to set off towards the town . Pulling along

  her cart, the young woman went and joined the caravan of other

  Germans who had stopped on the little bridge, but the old one

  didn't want to go. She went back into th
e kitchen and seized a

  china bowl ; Bobol, already tipsy, tried to tear it from her grasp.

  They struggled for a while, until the old woman's white hair

  was rufOed and suddenly, for the first time in nwnth-.. -.he

  started shouting. She ran outside, still shou ting and w.l,·ing her

  fist.

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  0 I g a To k a r c z u k

  'What did she say, what's she yelling?' Bobol asked, but the

  official refused to tell him.

  After the Germans had vanished over the hills the official

  came back lO tell them that their village was no longer called

  Einsiedler, but had been given a new, Polish name - now it was

  Pietno. Bobol also found out that the old woman had cursed

  him.

  'She showered you in curses - may your land be infertile,

  may you end up alone, may no illnesses leave you in peace, may

  your animals drop dead, may your trees be frui tless, may fire

  consume your meadows and water flood your fields. That's what

  she was shouting,' said the official and lit one cigarette from

  another. 'But only a fool would take any notice.'

  T h e p e w t e r p l a t e

  Marta has a lot of broken things: single cups, saucers with the

  pattern worn away, so you can only guess at the gilded meanders

  of leaves, tin mugs with makeshift wire handles, and pots with

  rusty marks where the enamel has peeled off. She has one huge

  fork with a swastika on it, and knives with blades so pared down

  by thousands of sharpenings that they look like skewers. I suspect that she digs them up each spring while working in the garden, washes them, polishes them with a bit of ash and tosses

  them in the drawer. If so, M arta could be self-sufficient in

  kitchenware. Our land has also given birth to some grotesque

  objects. We haven't treated them with much respect, preferring

  like everyone else to have shiny new things with traces of glue

  from the price sticker and a guarantee that they'll last, in the

  form of a perfectly smooth surface or the faintly metallic smell of

  the factory.

  H o u s e o f D a y, H o u s e o f N i g h t

  239

  So I don't covet Marta's things, or her heavy pillows, in which

  the feathers wander about during their nocturnal wrestling with

  the human body, or her faded samplers embroidered in German

  with uplifting mottoes like: 'Wo Mutters Hiinde licbe•td wcrltcn, dc1

  bleibt das G liich im Haus erhalten ,' or 'Eigner Herd isl Goldcs

  wert.'*

  There's only one object I'm fond of - a pewter plate, heavy

  and bulky, decorated round the edge with an embossed geometrical pattern worn down by the touch of fingers. The paLLern is fading and melting into the background in so many places that

  I enjoy touching it and trying to identify it by feel, without looking. It is Greek in style, or art deco; it has alternating circles and squares linked by crosses that add them together like plus signs.

  In many places the gilt has come off, revealing bare grey metal.

  In summer Marta puts frui t in it, and in autumn nuts. The

  plate reigns supreme at the very centre of her oilcloth-covered

  table. It is the only attractive item in her hoard of flawed objects.

  The rest inspire nothing but sympathy.

  T h e n a n ny

  I had a German nanny, whose name was Gertruda Nietschc. She

  was small and brisk like a rodent, and she wore thick glasses that

  reflected every source of light, from electric bulbs to the sun,

  several times over. She knew only a few words of Polish and

  used them mainly in conversations with my mother. while to me

  she spoke the way she though t, in German. I can remember her

  face well, her brusque-but-loving movements. the softnc-.s of

  * Translator's note: 'Where a mot her's hands arc huw. therr luck rrm.tllh in

  t he house'; 'Your own herd is worth its \Ti)!.ht in gold.'

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  0 I g a To k a r c z u k

  her cardigans, and a smell of cocoa, but I can't remember her

  words. In those days I didn't have any language at my disposal.

  I had no need for words yet, either Polish or German or any

  other. She had her own language , which to everyone in the

  vicinity sounded foreign, or even hateful (after all, it was only

  twenty years since the war had ended). She spoke to me, sang to

  me and scolded me in that language. She used to put me in a

  wooden pushchair and take me across the weir to visit her relatives the Kampas, the only original inhabitants left, and there, in their home full of knick-knacks, we joined in endless conversations - I, of course, remained silent.

  During these conversations I sat on a bedspread, propped up

  on pillows, while Gertruda sat at the tabl e with Mrs Kampa

  chinking their cups together. Then she used to take me in her

  arms, and I must have been reflected in her glasses, but I don't

  remember, because 1 wasn't aware of my own presence in reflections yet, and I didn't exist as far as mirrors were concerned.

  Because of Gertruda I retain the hope that I might remember

  some German, that the language is lying dormant inside me,

  buried in the dust of innumerable conversations in Polish, the

  stacks o f books I've read, from my Polish reading primer

  onwards; if not the whole language, then at least enough of the

  most important words to get by. I'm just waiting for this language to come to the surface, without the help of textbooks and boring lessons. I'm hoping I'll suddenly start to understand it out of the blue, and maybe even start to speak it, though that's sure to be difficult, as my lips and tongue aren't

  used to making foreign shapes. I'm sure I would understand

  German if someone - like Gertruda - were to lean O'er me,

  caress me and feed me, or show me the park, and ask the sort

  of silly questions adults ask children, 'And what's that? Who's

  coming? Where's Mummy?' I'm �ure I would also understand it

  H o u s e o f D a y, H o u s e o f J' i g h t

  2 4 1

  if they were t o let m e feel the u nique contours of t heir face, or

  if they were the last image I saw before falling asleep, and the

  first on waking.

  At the Kampas I gained my first visual memory of myself. I

  would have been about a year old then, because I was already

  sitting up. It must have been the same itinerant photographer

  who took my photo in the first class at school several years

  later. He must have amused and cajoled Gertruda, and talked

  her into it, because she undressed me and sat me on a white fur.

  I'm sure I must have screamed in protest, because I was given a

  saucepan lid to play with . What with the touch of that lid

  against my naked belly, the bright lamp and the eye o f the

  camera aimed at me - with all that attention focused on me -

  for the first time in my life, rather shakily and uncertain ly, I

  stood outside mysel f and looked at myself through the eye of

  that lens, taking a view other than my own, a cold, distant , dispassionate view. From then on this viewpoint i nside myself, that I look out from, would appear more and more often , until

  finally it would start to change me; I would stan to be unsure

  who I was and where my cen tre was, the point around which

  everything else was arranged. Each time I looked at the samer />
  things, I would see them differently. At first I would get lost in

  it all, I'd be t errified, desperately search ing fo r constancy.

  Finally I'd realize that constancy really does exist, but way

  beyond my reach, while I'm like a stream, like the river in "owa

  Ruda that keeps changing colour, and the only thing I can he

  sure of is that I'm flowing through a point in space and time.

  and I'm nothing more than the sum of the prope rties or that

  place and that time.

  The one advantage to emerge from this is that the world seen

  from a different viewpoint is a differen t world , so I can live in as

  many worlds as I am able to sec .

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  O l g a To k a r c z u k

  The Cutlers' psalm

  Futility on all the earth

  blessed be barren wombs

  holy be all sterility

  sacred is decay, desirous is decline

  wondrous the frui tlessness of winter

  the empty shells of nuts

  logs burnt to ashes that still keep the shape of the

  tree

  seeds that fall on to stony ground

  knives gone blunt

  streams run dry

  the beast that devours another's offspring

  the bird that feeds on another's eggs

  war that is always the start of peace

  hunger that is the beginning of repletion

  Sacred old age, daybreak of death,

  time trapped in the body,

  death sudden, unexpected,

  death downtrodden like a path in the grass

  To do, but have no results

  to act, but stir nothing

  to age, but change nothing

  to set off, but never arrive

  to speak, but not give voice

  Tr e a s u r e h u n t i n g

  In time the German houses grew more willing to surrender their

  contents to their new Polish ow,ners - pots, plates, mugs with

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  2·+3

  handles, bedding, and clothes that were almost new, some of them

  truly elegant. Sometimes they found simple wooden toys t hat

  they gave to their children - after years of war this was real treasure. The cellars were full of jars of jam, puree and apple wine.

  berries preserved in sugar with juice thick as ink, yellow chunks

  of pickled melon that they didn't much like the taste of, and spicy

  marinated mushrooms. Old Bobol, who was growing more and

 

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