A Treatise on Shelling Beans

by Wieslaw Mysliwski

  Actually, in the depths of my soul I wanted her to be a whole lot older. Not for the reason you think. It’s only up to a certain age that you want something like that, then your desire starts to turn back. You think that from that moment we become worse people? I don’t think I agree. We’re already worse when we play in the sandbox.

  Did you ever play in a sandbox when you were a child? Me neither. Why would anyone have made a sandbox for children in the village? There was sand everywhere, in abundance. Wherever the river turned, one bank would be sandy. You could roll in the sand, bury yourself, build things in sand, whatever you felt like. And not just by the Rutka. Though village kids aren’t drawn to sand the way children in the city are. You’ve got fields, meadows, woods, everything is wide open in every direction, above you, in the distance, who would want to play in sand? You could play anywhere. Like living, people lived wherever. Big houses weren’t necessary, no one needed to be apart. People lived in the yards, in the barns, in the cattle sheds, the orchards, the fields, on the meadows, under the sky, by the Rutka. The whole world was our home, while our actual home was only there so we could all come together at the end of the day. So everyone wanted to be as close as possible to the next person. In some houses there wasn’t even a separate living room, just one big room, then you were closest of all. It was only when you were tightly crammed in that you could truly feel you were together. Who would have made a sandbox for the children, when the children also wanted to feel they were part of everyone else. If it had occurred to anyone to build a sandbox like you see in the cities, do you think any child would have wanted to play in it? You could have tied them there on a chain, they would have broken free. And the sandbox would have become a home for chickens and geese and ducks, they like to play in sand, they would have made a big old mess in there and that would have been the end of the sandbox.

  When I was abroad I spent a lot of time watching sandboxes. Wherever I lived, in among the apartment buildings there were always sandboxes. As I mentioned, I like children, and so whenever I had a little time I’d sit on a bench by one of the sandboxes, among the nannies and mothers and grandmothers. And let me tell you, when I watched the children playing in the sandbox, I’d sometimes be moved, but also fearful.

  Believe me, a sandbox is a whole world. A couple of square yards, but it’s an entire world, humanity, future wars. Nice rosy little faces, you’d think they were all quite innocent, but you could already tell who would bury who in the sand, and who would hide from who in the sand. Which of them would one day find the sandbox too small, and which of them would soon get lost in it. Was the sandbox really to blame? Some people reckon so. But when I think about it I sometimes have the feeling that we’re all exiles from the sandbox, whatever our age. Me too, though I never played in a sandbox.

  You know, when I was abroad I even saw sandboxes with colored sand. Green, blue, pink. I think it was dyed. Where could they have found sand in those colors. But can colored sand make us different? It’s true that we’re affected by colors. But not everyone is influenced to the same extent by the same colors. And we’ve no idea who is more affected by what color. Or which color fades in which person or which one grows brighter. And are the colors we see the same when they’re within us? Besides, tell me this: Can anyone come up with a wiser color for sand than the color of the sun? A wiser color for leaves than green? Or blue for the sky? White for snow? Of course colors are wise. Didn’t you know that? If it hadn’t been for the white snow back at that time, then …

  What’s my favorite color? What are you, a journalist? No, that much I know for sure. You don’t even look like a journalist. What color? Oh, I don’t know. I wasn’t expecting that question. I don’t have a favorite color. Anyway, would it mean anything if I said, for instance, green? Because which green would it be? Each tree in the woods, each bush, each leaf, even moss, is a different kind of green. And in you, all of that turns into a different kind of green again. So can you say that something is green? Green is an infinity. Each color is an infinity.

  As I stared through that crack in the cellar door, I was amazed to see one kind of whiteness turned into another, then a moment later into a different kind again, without ever going back to the previous one. It was like waves of whiteness rolling over the white snow. So what do you think the color white is? You’re messing with me. You’d like to see me spend my whole life in the sandbox. I’d want that too. Except that no color is forever. Color is change, like everything else.

  When I was abroad I’d sometimes visit art galleries and museums. You too? Then you must have noticed that for each artist, the hardest color is the flesh of a woman. Even with the same artist, from one picture to the next. I don’t mean that the color changes, just that there’s a kind of helplessness in the face of that color. So can you say that a woman’s body is such and such a color? Since the color might depend, say, on the painter’s self-doubt? Or on his fear, his anguish, his despair? Yes, sometimes his desire as well. As I looked at the paintings I’d often have the impression that all those colors were unequal to some challenge, as it were. No, not what you think – not unequal to the model. Then what challenge? You’d have to provide the answer yourself, if you’ve been with women.

  The sister wasn’t at all shy in front of me, she would bathe naked. Sister, that was what everyone called her, me too. Actually, that was the first word I spoke. Sister. Because for the longest time I didn’t talk at all. I just didn’t. It was like I didn’t know how. Like I didn’t know any words. I was simply mute. In fact, she was the one who taught me that first word. Call me sister, she said. That’s what everyone calls me. Go on, say it: sister. Say, sister. Sis-ter.

  She’d always have me stand guard when she bathed.

  “You can see me,” she’d say. “But make sure none of the others are watching.”

  Wherever there was a little stream or creek or spring, she’d always bathe. Actually we only ever stopped at places where there was water. After all, you had to have something to drink, to clean yourself in, and there was always a lot of stuff that needed washing. Bandages for a start. I helped her with it all. Whatever needed washing I’d carry down to the water, then later hang it out on branches to dry. I didn’t speak, but I understood what was said to me, by her and by the others. Whenever she was dressing a wound I’d hold things for her, take things out of her bag, use the scissors, help her tie the bandage. When she had to wash someone because they were lying there like they were dead, I’d hold his head up, or his side if he needed to be turned on his side. I’d take his boots off, because she’d always wash his feet as well, even though his feet weren’t injured, she’d say it’d be easier for him with clean feet. You can’t imagine what state their feet were in, covered in blisters, sores, scabs, often rubbed to the point of bleeding, infected.

  One time we came to a biggish lake in the woods. We stopped there for longer than usual. They said the place was untouched by humans, no one would find us there. It was true, you could even tell from the trees, they were falling over from old age. You could pick your fill of mushrooms, blackberries, wild strawberries, blueberries. And there were birds everywhere you turned, let me tell you. Birds to your heart’s content. Right from daybreak the woods echoed with birdsong. On the lake there were moorhens, ducks, swans. It was the perfect place to rest up after all that walking, catch up on some sleep, lick your wounds, and even forget about the war for a short while. The truth was that I didn’t know if it was still going on or if maybe it was over. No one said anything. We kept trekking about in the woods, avoiding the villages. I remember one time we crossed some railroad tracks, another time we went over a bridge, and one night we spent in a windmill. All I saw was them carrying out full sacks of something and putting them in a wagon. They told me to sit on the sacks. Then they walked alongside, and I rode on the wagon. In the end I fell asleep, and when someone eventually took me down from the sacks we were already back in the woods. Another time we were at some country estate, though
only in the grounds. They brought out some food for us, we ate then moved on.

  The sister always led me by the hand. Every so often she’d ask if I was tired. Sometimes one of the men would give me a piggyback ride for a bit. In the winter they made dugouts and we lived in them, so the war could have been over by then. At home they always used to talk about how it’d be over by Christmas, or by Easter. Here no one said anything. Not around me, in any case. Whenever they were talking about something and I came by, they’d fall silent. One time they didn’t notice me, it was evening, a bunch of them were sitting by the campfire. The only thing I caught was, Till the final victory. I might have heard more, but I trod on a dry branch and they stopped talking.

  Truth be told, I didn’t particularly want it to end. I liked being with them. The sister was like a real sister to me, I grew attached to her, and I couldn’t imagine that we could ever be parted. I could have figured out one thing or another, but I preferred not to. For example, it sometimes happened that a small group of them, or a dozen or more, would all of a sudden grab their guns and head out. They’d come back in the early morning, or the following night, when I was asleep. Where they’d been, I had no idea. How could I ask when I didn’t talk? We always ate better after one of those trips. There’d be bread and lard, sometimes a bit of meat in the soup. The soup itself would be different, instead of being made from a little of everything as it seemed, we’d have for instance pea soup. When it was pea soup everyone rubbed their hands in anticipation. We also ate better when they caught something in a trap or a snare. They weren’t allowed to hunt with guns. Otherwise, we mostly just ate millet porridge. You know what millet is? No? Well, I’m not going to explain it to you, because ever since then I’ve hated millet porridge. Where they got it from I couldn’t say. Just like I couldn’t say where they went with their guns.

  One time, from one of those expeditions they brought me back a tin of acid drops, another time a ball, then once it was a game of checkers, and one of them taught me how to play. Then I would always play with him. Another time a book, Andersen’s Fairy Tales. Do you know it? They said that if I started to read, maybe I’d begin to speak as well. Though when they took their guns it wasn’t so they could bring me acid drops or a ball or checkers or a book of fairy tales. I tried to read in my head, because I couldn’t do it with my mouth. I barely got to the end of the page, it was such hard work I’d rather have been shelling beans. Though like I said, I couldn’t stand shelling beans.

  I basically couldn’t read, though in school I’d been the best reader. I read pretty well. I liked reading. At home, in the evenings I used to sometimes read aloud to everyone. Jagoda and Leonka were both older than me, Jagoda was two classes ahead of me and Leonka three, but they weren’t as good at reading as I was. The sister noticed one time that I was having trouble.

  “Here, I’ll read to you,” she said.

  From that time, not every day because she didn’t always have time during the day, and in the evenings we didn’t use lights, but when she could she’d read to me. At least a page or two. Though often her eyes would be closing from exhaustion. Sometimes one or another of the men would listen in, sometimes a few of them. Grown men listening to fairy tales, you can imagine? And partisans into the bargain.

  She’d always mark her place in the book with a dry leaf. Later she’d keep the leaf, because she’d say she couldn’t bring herself to throw away such a beautiful leaf. And she’d mark the new place with another leaf. I would find the leaves for her, I’d hunt around for the nicest ones. I often went all over the woods. Then, of the best ones that I’d gathered, we’d choose the nicest one of all.

  “Shall we use this one?”

  I’d always want to use the one she picked.

  “Where do you find such lovely leaves?” she’d ask admiringly each time.

  Let me tell you, to hear that admiration of hers I would have climbed up into the trees, not just looked around on the ground underneath them. There were oaks, beeches, maples, elms, sycamores, all kinds of trees. She virtually filled the book with leaves. We only had a few tales left to read, but she didn’t manage to finish the book. Later I’ll show you the book. I have it in the living room. Don’t worry, I’m not going to read to you. The ones that are unread, let them stay that way. No, the copy with the leaves got lost. This one I bought myself.

  I went to get some sheet music one time, and the store also carried books. I’d already bought the music, and I was just browsing idly among the books. All at once I see Andersen’s Fairy Tales. My heart pounded. I paid, brought it home and put it on my bedside table. I was living alone, my wife had left me not long before. I’d always read at bedtime. Whether or not I was tired, I always had to read a page or two at least. Even after just one page I’d feel myself calming down and everything resuming its place, then after five or ten more pages my eyes would start to let me know they were about to close. I didn’t need sleeping pills. But the remaining tales, the ones she didn’t manage to read, somehow I could never bring myself to read them either.

  These days I supposedly have much more time, now that the season’s over. I don’t need to sleep because I don’t have to be fresh in the morning. But still I’ve never turned to those fairy tales. I do read, just not so much anymore. Nowadays not even books can make me fall asleep. Besides, I have the sense that books can no longer help me understand the things I’d like to understand here at the end.

  When I was working on the electrification of the villages, in one house where we were installing the wiring I saw Andersen’s Fairy Tales lying on a windowsill. I asked the owner if I could borrow it. He said:

  “You can have it. We don’t need it. It belonged to our boy. He got killed. Stepped on a mine.”

  I took it back to our lodgings, four of us were rooming together, and I meant to read a bit in bed that evening. One of the other guys whose bed was next to mine noticed the book and started to laugh.

  “What, are you reading fairy tales?”

  Another guy piped up from another bed:

  “What you need is a girl. One that’s the right shape here and here, got some flesh on her.”

  I was embarrassed, I pulled my suitcase out from under my bed and stuffed the book beneath my shirt and socks and other things, right at the bottom. Then I started work at the building site, but I never reached for my suitcase to take the book out and read it. In the end I gave it to one of the guys to give to his son. He was going home one Sunday and he was worried that he didn’t have a present for his kid. I asked:

  “How old is he?” I took out the Fairy Tales. “Give him this. It’s just right for his age. I was the same age.”

  But why was the sister not shy in front of me? I don’t know. Maybe because I didn’t speak? Or for some other reason?

  One time I was on guard to make sure no one was watching her, I was standing with my back to the lake and she was undressing on the shore. Suddenly she called out:

  “Turn around! Do I make you feel uncomfortable? Come over here! When was the last time you bathed?” I didn’t know how to tell her it hadn’t been that long. “I bet it’s been ages,” she said. “All of you here like being dirty. Take your clothes off. You can wash with me.” I stood there rooted to the spot. “What are you staring at me for? Haven’t you had your fill of looking yet?” I averted my eyes. “Don’t just stand there, get undressed. Come on, I’ll help you.” Left to myself I don’t think I could have so much as unfastened a single button on my shirt. “Lift your head up. Give me your arm. Raise your foot. Have a good look, look all you like. At your age what do you know? You haven’t even got any hairs down there. So it can already get stiff? Still, you’ve got time. Though the rest of us might not be alive by then. Not me in any case, that’s for sure. Come on, hop in the water with me.”

  She leaped in. Like a colorful blur, that’s how I remember her. All the colors were in her. I’ve never found her since in any painting. I don’t remember her face anymore, but I can still s
ee the blur of her body.

  “Come on, jump in!” she repeated, emerging from the water. “Let’s swim to the other side! Don’t be afraid, I’ll be right by you!”

  I wasn’t afraid, I was a pretty good swimmer. I’d swum many times in the Rutka, downstream, or against the current. She swam by me, and when we got near the other side she asked:

  “Are you tired? Let’s climb out and sit awhile.”

  We got there, sat on the shore and gazed out.

  “The lake’s even more beautiful from this side,” she said. “It would be beautiful to die in it.” She lost herself in thought, then a moment later she said: “Look at me. Don’t turn your eyes away. I want you to remember me. Will you remember me? Tell me you will. You’ll survive for certain. Because us–” She broke off. I looked at her. I thought I was seeing things, but no, tears were streaming down her cheeks. “I’m not crying,” she said, though I hadn’t said anything. “My face is wet from the water, that’s all. Yours is too. I could just as well say you’re crying.”

  But I actually was crying. Not on the outside. I felt somehow as if the tears were flowing inside of me, on the other side of my eyes. Have you ever known tears like that? For me, it was only that once. And for the first time since she’d found me in the cellar, I felt words in my mouth.

  “Sister …,” I said. I got stuck. Then: “I’ll …” Then: “always …”

  She didn’t let me finish. She burst out in joy:

  “You’re talking! You’re talking!” She wiped the tears from her cheeks. “Let’s swim back! We’ll tell everyone you’re talking!”

  What was I trying to say then? I don’t recall. Perhaps it wasn’t anything important. But for me those had been the most important words of my whole life that I’d wanted to say but hadn’t said. If you sat down and thought about it, how many unspoken words like that must have disappeared forever? And they may have been more important than all the ones that were spoken. Don’t you think?