A Treatise on Shelling Beans

by Wieslaw Mysliwski

  Snow like that changes the world. For instance, when you walk through the woods among the trees all heaped with snow, you really feel like just lying down under one of the trees. Especially when it falls in big flakes, even if it were going to cover you up, you’d still lie down. Why not? Is it so difficult to imagine you’re lying there in bed, in the sheets, under a fluffy quilt, plus no one’s waking you up, while here over your head there’s, let say, a happy fir tree. That’s right, trees can be happy or unhappy too, it can happen. Like people, they’re not so different from us. I can see you don’t believe me. Let me tell you, when I was little I could tell at a glance which trees were happy and which ones weren’t. When I went berry-picking or mushrooming with mother, she’d be looking for berries or mushrooms, whereas me, I’d be looking at the trees and seeing which ones were happy and which were unhappy. Often I’d call her over to come take a look, she really had to see. She’d come away from her berries or mushrooms, thinking something must be wrong. But she never told me I was talking nonsense, that I’d taken her away from her berries or mushrooms for no reason. Try and imagine this: two oak trees next to each other, both of them just oaks, but one of them is happy, while the other one is kind of stock still in its distress. On the first tree the leaves are all atremble with the joy of life, on the other one they look like all they want to do is fall off.

  These days I can’t tell which is which. I often walk a good ways through the woods, but I can’t figure it out. They all look the same to me, and whether a tree’s happy or unhappy, I can’t say. Often I’ll take the dogs out and watch to see if they know. But neither of them so much as sniffs at a tree. How can I get them to? What are they even supposed to sniff for – to see which trees are happy and which ones aren’t? You’d have to explain to them what that meant. The thing is, no one knows. Besides, the woods themselves may mean something different to dogs. In any case, for me they’re no longer the same woods.

  When I got cold looking through the crack, I went back down to the bottom of the cellar. It was much warmer down there. I slept there, ate there. Oh, there was plenty to eat. Not just potatoes. Carrots, beets, cabbage, turnip. When I was thirsty, I drank snow. I managed to push the door open a tiny bit, just enough to reach out my hand and get a handful of snow.

  I didn’t count on anyone finding me there. To be honest, I didn’t want anyone to find me. Besides, who could it have been? The whole place was deserted, silent, nothing but the snow. You’ll find this hard to believe, but I was actually beginning to feel comfortable there. I felt the way I did when I was lying in the bottom of the boat in the reeds, and they’d be calling me, father, mother, my sisters, and I’d pretend not to hear. I’d imagine them scolding me later, Where on earth were you? You’re nothing but trouble. We were calling and calling.

  No animal came by, no bird flew over or perched on a tree. It was only some time later that I saw a hare, though even then I just caught a glimpse of it on top of the snow. Some time after that, I don’t know how long it could have been since I saw the hare, I wasn’t counting the days – I guess I could have put one potato aside each day, say, but what for? When you count, it means you’re counting on something. Whereas me, I wasn’t counting on anything, like I told you. Anyway, after a while a deer appeared. I didn’t think it was real. I stared and I couldn’t believe my eyes. I thought I must be dreaming, because it was standing more or less where the kitchen had been. Plus it was calm, tame, you rarely see deer that calm and trusting. It stood there like nothing could scare it away. It must have been hungry, it started grubbing in the snow with its muzzle. I thought about tossing it some potatoes, it might come even closer. But I couldn’t open the door any wider. Then suddenly, though nothing had startled it, it just vanished. You know, when you look at nothing but snow, and through a crack in a door at that, everything happens in a different way. And different things happen than when there’s no snow.

  I’d glue my eye to that crack in the door, and it was like looking through a stereoscope at Christmas postcards. For instance, one time a Christmas tree decorated with candles appeared where our living room had been. The candles burned so brightly that everywhere else all around became dark as night, even though it was daytime. Or suddenly, beyond the woods a star began to fall from the sky, big and glowing, with a shining tail. I had to take my eye away from the crack, because I couldn’t stare at it for long. Then one day I looked out and the three kings were passing by. How did I know they were kings? They wore crowns. They looked lost, because they walked a ways, turned around and went off in a different direction.

  One time father took me to market and we went into a store to buy notebooks. Under the glass counter top they had postcards like that, among other things the three kings walking across snow, and someone was pointing the way to them, not this way, that way. I couldn’t tear my eyes away. It was the first time I’d seen postcards. I even got up the courage to ask the clerk what you did with them.

  “You send them,” he said.

  I started badgering father:

  “Daddy, let’s buy one and send it.”

  “Who to?” He tugged me away impatiently. “We don’t have anyone to send it to. Everyone’s here.”

  One time there was the sound of sleigh bells. I stuck my eye to the crack. It got louder and louder, it was clearly coming in my direction. Then, suddenly it started to move further away, till it faded completely. I never saw the sleigh, or who was driving it. Another time, carol singers appeared. They were walking in single file, one after another, they could barely lift their feet clear of the snow. In the lead was the Star, after him King Herod, the Marshal, the Jew, the Watchman, while the Devil brought up the rear. I was surprised Death wasn’t there. I thought to myself, who’s going to cut Herod’s head off? But maybe Death was there after all, it was just that Death is white, and against the snow you couldn’t tell if he was there. The way you sometimes can’t tell dreams from waking life.

  Mr. Robert, ever since we first met, every Christmas he’d send me one of those cards, and I’d send one to him. We’d choose the kind I’m talking about, with Christmas trees, carolers, the three kings and so on. He’d often select one that he made fun of in what he wrote on the back. I’m sending you what’s left of our naivety, check out the other side.

  One Christmas I was picking out a card for him when I saw one that was just like what I’d seen through the crack in the door. Exactly the same. A star was falling beyond some woods, and the world lay under a blanket of snow. I bought it, bought a stamp right away, addressed it almost without thinking and sent it. Not to Mr. Robert. To this place. With no message. I mean, what message could I have sent? Ever since then, every Christmas I would send a card like that. Without a message. One time only, I wondered about signing it: Yours. But what does that mean? Whose? They never came back. How could they, I never gave a return address. Pointless, you reckon? I thought so too. But Christmas would come around again and I’d send another one. You might not agree with me, but to my mind it’s only on postcards that the world is still the way we’d like it to be. That’s why we send them to one another.

  No, I didn’t think about what would happen when the snow melted. I ate, I slept, I looked through the crack in the door, and when it came down to it I wasn’t sure whether I was alive. Maybe I was simply waiting, thinking I would melt along with the snow. Why wouldn’t I? When a person isn’t sure that they’re alive, maybe they could melt with the snow.

  Then out of nowhere, one day a group of partisans appeared. That morning the sun was shining brightly, the woods had become transparent, it was like the trees had parted, and I could see them coming from a long way off. You might not believe me, but I wanted them to walk on by. Shout that I was there? No way. I’ll say more, it was only then that I started to be afraid. I went back down to the bottom of the cellar, I even climbed up on a pile of potatoes by the wall. To one side there were potatoes, on the other there were the carrots, beets, cabbage, turnip. In the middle was a
clear space where you could stand, put your basket down and fill it.

  It wasn’t that it was because of them it had all happened. Whoever it might have been, I didn’t want to be found. They often came to the village. In summer, in winter, at any time of the day or night. In wintertime they’d stay the longest. There wasn’t a house where they didn’t make themselves at home. At times there were more of them than the people who lived there. They’d sleep in attics, barns, in the regular rooms too if someone had more than one room. The officers always stayed in the houses. They had to be fed, and they’d tend to their wounds. Often a doctor had to be fetched, though I don’t remember anyone in the village ever bringing a doctor for themselves. People would make their own treatments, they had herbs and ointments, they drank infusions, gave rub-downs, did cuppings. And when that didn’t help, they died. There were all kinds of ways of treating sicknesses. For example, do you know what hare’s-tongue is? No, it’s actually fat. It’s the best thing for an infected wound. For burns, aloes. For rheumatism, you’d sting the affected place with nettles. Me too, I sometimes go and put my hands in nettles. Or you’d put bees on them. Even the worst broken bones, there were people who knew how to set them. Without plaster, they used firewood sticks. Or do you know what it means to say a child is dry? It’s when a baby’s born with a dislocated hip. Grandmother always mended hips like that. They’d bring her the child, say it wouldn’t stop crying. First she’d place the baby’s legs next to each other to see if the folds lined up. If they didn’t, it meant it was a dry child. At those times you had to leave the house, the baby would scream so much in her hands. But in our village no one limped. Not every illness could be treated. But treatment isn’t always about having a solution. It’s enough for someone to know there’s no solution and that’s why they have to die.

  You know, fetching a doctor was easier said than done. It was a long way, plus not every doctor was willing to take the risk. One time they made father go, and we all prayed until he came back. Then he had to take the doctor back again, and again we prayed for his safe return. So sometimes people were sick of the partisans. Especially because on top of everything they drank, and you had to have moonshine to give them. They even organized little dances. Some of them played the harmonica, they’d gather all the unmarried girls, and the girls were raring to go. Afterwards one or another of them found herself pregnant.

  Each time they came to the village, a few of them had died in the meantime. That didn’t stop them drinking and partying. When they drank they’d sometimes fire their guns in the air. The village was in the middle of the woods, far from highways and the railroad, they thought no one would hear. Honestly though, it was kind of fun when they were there. It was like a different place. Not right away. When they first arrived, their faces were always hollow-cheeked and dark. Their eyes were sleepy, bloodshot, every glance they gave seemed like suspicion. When one of them smiled it didn’t look like a human smile. They all had long beards, as if they hadn’t shaved since their last visit. A few of them would have bandages around their heads, in some cases blood was still seeping through. One had an arm in a sling. Another would be limping. Some only had one boot on, the other foot was wrapped in bloody rags. A few of them were being carried. Those were the ones they usually called the doctor for. And let me tell you, they stank to high heaven.

  The first thing they did was delouse themselves. Maybe because lice itch even more than dirt. When they bite, they’re more trouble than wounds. We never had lice in our home, mother saw to that. If even one showed up, she’d launder everything at once. Then she’d iron it all with an iron so hot it hissed. Especially along the seams. That was where the lice most liked to hide. We all had to take a bath, wash our hair, comb it with the finest comb. There were special combs for when you had lice. The teeth were so close together there was barely any space between them. On top of that she’d slather us with sabadilla. You don’t know what that is? In those days it was the most effective thing for head lice. There were guys who came selling stuff around the villages, they had buttons, safety pins, snap fasteners, needles, pins, threads. They also sold hair clasps, tape for lining, ribbons to make bows for little girls. What else? All kinds of things. Shoelaces, shoe polish, bunion cream, rooster powders – that was what they called pain medication, but only for headaches. Rooster powders. They had pretty much anything that might come in handy around the house. The housewives would look forward to them coming. People rarely rode into town to market, only when they had more than usual to sell. But sabadilla was always needed. It was almost like holy water.

  So the lice would appear the moment the partisans showed up. They hadn’t learned to delouse themselves. Not all of them, some of them must have been shown how to do it by their mothers or grandmothers. Because they’d find them and just throw them away. You’ve never had lice? Let me tell you, if you’ve not had lice you’ve not truly been in this world. One war after another and you’ve never had lice, that’s pretty strange. I’m just saying in general, not about you in particular. In this world you have to have had lice at least once, and you have to know how to get rid of them. Grandfather even wondered how they knew how to fight if they didn’t know how to delouse themselves. He said that the first duty of a soldier is to know how to deal with lice, then with hunger, then with the home he’s left behind. Only then is he fit to kill other soldiers or civilians. Though that didn’t stop grandfather sitting and watching them delouse themselves. He’d even point and say, look, there’s one, there’s another. It was hardly surprising that later he brought the lice home with him.

  Then they’d bathe, shave, get a haircut, wash their hair, launder their clothes, dress their wounds, till they became completely unlike the men who had arrived. The ones who’d arrived were old, and these were young men. Some were still children. In many cases it was hard to believe it was the same person. They arrived barely dragging their feet, then afterwards they’d want to dance.

  All of a sudden the snow crunched outside the cellar, the door creaked, and a shaft of light fell across the floor. I couldn’t be seen in it, because as I said I was sitting outside on a mound of potatoes. But I heard a girl’s shrill voice:

  “Hello? Is anybody there?”

  In the first moment I wondered if it could be Jagoda or Leonka. They had girlish voices.

  “Hello? Is anybody there?”

  It was only then that I knew it wasn’t either of them. They’d probably seen where I’d scooped out snow to drink from beside the door, and figured out there must be someone down in the cellar. She came maybe one step down, her voice got louder, though it was still girlish, it even sounded a little afraid:

  “Is anybody there? Say something!”

  I didn’t step out, I swear. All at once something happened that couldn’t have been predicted. The pile of potatoes I was sitting on collapsed with a crash, and I came tumbling down with them. No, it wasn’t fate. We’d been taking potatoes again and again from the pile, it was bound to tumble sooner or later. All it would need would be one more potato being taken, and the pile wouldn’t hold together anymore. The only question is, why at that particular moment, not some other time. The bough of a tree breaks off right at the second someone’s passing by. Is that fate? I heard her shout up above me:

  “Oh my lord!” She scrambled out and started shouting:

  “There’s someone alive in here! There’s someone alive!”

  There was nothing I could do, I had to show myself alive. When you hear an almost angelic voice above you, at a moment when it seems the world doesn’t exist, and you don’t exist in it – it’s as if the voice was summoning you and the world to life. What was I supposed to do, shout out that I wasn’t there? I started to clamber towards her, the light flooded my eyes, so the first thing I saw was an armband with a red cross on her sleeve, before I saw the rest of her. She said in a shocked voice:

  “Lord, you’re nothing but a child!”

  I must say she cut me to the quick with tha
t comment about being a child. I thought, damn girl. And it turned out I was right. She was really young, with such fair hair, though in her army greatcoat and forage cap she might have seemed a lot older than she was. Especially because the coat was much too big for her, the sleeves were rolled right up to here, and the cap would have also been too big if it hadn’t been for her hair. Her voice was the only indication of how old she might be. As you know, appearances can deceive but the voice, never. All the more so in uniform. In uniform the youngest soldier always looks much older than he actually is. Even children – when they’re in uniform it looks like it’d be no problem for them to kill, slaughter, burn. Besides, even aside from the uniform, when you were as young as I was then, even someone who’s just a few years more than you looks virtually old. Later it changes, the years draw closer together, and the closer you are to death the more everything evens out. In particular since death doesn’t choose among us according to age. I wouldn’t say it’s random. Death has its own wisdom.

  She was a medic, you could tell from the armband with the red cross. When I came out from the cellar I saw that over her shoulder she was carrying a bag that also had a red cross. The bag was too heavy for her, her shoulder drooped. There was a whole drugstore in there. Actually, it wasn’t just the bag that was too heavy for her. She was the only medic for the whole unit, can you imagine. I never heard her complain, but it was clear that the whole thing was beyond her strength. Constantly she was washing bandages, dressing wounds, handing out pills for aches and pains and fevers, she’d wipe the men’s foreheads, clean away the blood and the dirt – often from head to foot – when one of them was too weak to stand on his own two feet and kept calling her to come here and go there, day and night.

  Even today, when I think of her I find it hard to imagine that someone could be so young and work without any relief – anyone her age deserves a break. I couldn’t tell you exactly how old she was, she never mentioned her age, maybe she was embarrassed, but she put up with it all like someone much, much older.