A Grain of Truth

by Zygmunt Miloszewski

  Ariadna and Mariusz were chattering in front of the information channel, which broadcasted nothing but bad news; in fact, he was doing more of the chattering, while she listened and rather sparingly disagreed. She didn’t want to make a fuss that would wake up their small son, asleep in the next room, and besides, she couldn’t be bothered to argue with her husband, ever since she had officially recognized him as the biggest mistake in her life.

  “I don’t get it. The painting’s been hanging in the church for three hundred years, in the cathedral even. There were trials, they were condemned, before the war the procedure was still widely known. And now they’re pretending to be so surprised the truth has come to light.”

  “What truth? Are you nuts? No one’s ever proved it.”

  “No one can prove it’s not true.”

  “Mariusz, for God’s sake, it doesn’t work like that. You don’t have to prove innocence, just guilt. You don’t have to study law to know that, it’s… I don’t know, it’s the ABC of being human.”

  “It was a normal custom among the Jews. Get it? And not just here – apparently it was the same in France and other countries. And besides, who do you think drove those black Volga limos?”

  “Let me guess: the Jews?”

  “So where do we get the legends about children being kidnapped by people in black Volgas for their blood? Eh? Maybe something does fit here after all?”

  “Yes, one lie fits another, it’s all the same sort of nonsense. Every time a child got lost because the parents were drunk or couldn’t be bothered to keep an eye on it, out came the vampires, Jews, Gypsies, black Volgas, whatever was the latest fashion. Can’t you see it’s just old wives’ tales?”

  “There’s sure to be some truth in every old wives’ tale, a grain of it, even just a tiny one.”

  “Don’t give me that crap – blood isn’t even kosher, no Jew would have touched a matzo with blood in it! Flipping heck, you’re supposed to be educated, aren’t you? You ought to know such things.”

  “It’s because I’m educated that I know there’s nothing black and white in history. And that you can tell everyone you’re kosher and you keep the Sabbath, but do something quite different. Do you think that when Israel was fighting the war against Lebanon they stopped on Saturdays? Well, quite.”

  “But weren’t you taught that historically it was the Poles who killed the Jews, not the other way around? It was the Poles who organized pogroms and random arson attacks, and during the occupation they liked informing on children who were hiding in the woods, or sticking a pitchfork in anyone who had miraculously managed to escape?”

  “That’s just one version of history.”

  “And in the other one they go about at night wrapped in their gaberdines, preying on children? God, it’s incredible.”

  “But you can’t deny that nowadays they do their hunting in a different way. Money’s what reigns now, instead of those barrels full of nails. Which of the banks are in non-Jewish hands these days? Is there one in Poland that’s Polish? That’s a far better way to draw blood than using nails.”

  “Right. You’d better go and put a second lock on the door to make sure they don’t abduct your son. A fat Catholic baby like him would make matzos for the entire town.”

  “Watch it, woman. I’m giving you good advice: watch it. Watch what you say about my son.”

  “Or it could be worse than that, they might open a bank account for him, that’d be a real tragedy – with every transfer the scabs would be getting rich at Kubuś’s expense. By Christ the Lord, the King of Poland and the Universe, we won’t let it come to that! Our Kubuś is always going to keep his money in a sock!”

  Father Marek and his parishioner Aniela Lewa were chattering at the table in her kitchen. To be fair to them, as the good Lord had gifted Aniela with the grace of great faith and an even greater talent for cooking, energetic slurping was more often to be heard coming from her kitchen than essentially theological discussions.

  “It’s a sin, I know it’s a sin, besides, it’s late and I must go. But if you insist, then maybe just a very small piece, that bit on the edge, with the well-done crust, that’s how I like it best. If Saint Thomas himself had had a piece of your cheesecake, he’d instantly have had another proof of the Lord God’s existence.”

  “Oh, Father, what a joke!”

  “It’s thanks to this sort of joke I’ll have to take my cassock to the tailor’s again. But I really ought to be slimming down, the tourists are coming, they want to see Father Mateusz, not a big fatty.”

  “Don’t say that, Father, you look very well.”

  “Too well.”

  “And what do you think, Father, is there a new fuss about those daubs in the cathedral?”

  “Yes, there is. And I’ve been thinking about that lately, Mrs Lewa, I was thinking we ought to learn from those de Prévôt paintings that every murder, every form of hatred, every false suspicion, all of it is evil and we should guard against it. No fanaticism is good, no exaggeration, even if someone exaggerates in good faith.”

  “You put it so nicely, Father.”

  “But of course there are lots of interpretations where that painting is concerned. I was also thinking it has something to say about the issue of abortion which is so important these days – after all, the same problem existed in the past too, and it was said that they knew how to perform abortions.”

  “The Jews?”

  “It’s not clear if it was the Jews or someone else, and the infants were just left with them after abortion.”

  Stanisław Prawy, a qualified guide for twenty-three years who conducted tours of Sandomierz, was finishing his supper at the restaurant in the Hotel Basztowy. He had been invited there by the accountants from a building firm, whom he had just spent the entire day showing round his beloved city.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I may be getting old, but I was not alive before the war, so I haven’t a clue what it may really have been like. But let us consider the logic of it. There are various religious sects in Poland and worldwide, are there not?”

  “There are.”

  “And within those sects, as we see, unfortunately, on television, suicides occur, and murders occur too, don’t they?”

  “Yes, they do.”

  “The Satanists, for example, and others. And so is it logical to say there might also have been various Jewish sects in history?”

  “Yes, there might.”

  “And might those sects have done some terrible things?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “And perhaps herein lies the truth. That unfortunately such things did occur, and the memory of those terrible incidents has been preserved in the painting.”

  Like all the town’s ancient residents, who had once known real Jews, not just the wooden figurines in the souvenir shop, for one day Helena Kołyszko ceased to be a burden and became an authority on what life had been like in the past. And like most of those who had lived in the pre-war Polish-Jewish city, she couldn’t remember any barrels, just sunbathing together in the meadows on warm days. As she was thinking about those warm days, downstairs her granddaughter was having a discussion with her husband.

  “Sylwia says she’s not sending him, why take the risk? Let the kid stay at home – no harm will come to him. After all, you know the local legend.”

  “Legend, my foot. Perhaps we should ask Granny – she remembers what life with the Jew-boys was like before the war.”

  “All right, let’s go up and see her. But don’t say ‘Jew-boys’, Rafał, that’s offensive.”

  “So what am I supposed to say? Hebrews?”

  “Just say it without the ‘boys’… Watch out for that top stair… Granny, are you asleep?”

  “I’ve had a good sleep already.”

  “I see you’re blooming, Granny.”

  “Withering, more like. Give me a kiss, Rafał, my favourite grandson-in-law.”

  “Stop spoiling him, Granny. You can remember what it wa
s like here before the war, can’t you?”

  “It was better than now. The boys used to look at me.”

  “What about the Jews?”

  “Ah, the Jews were the best – Mojsiek Epsztajn, oh, how suave he was.”

  “And do you know, Granny, what sort of stories did they tell then? Because now they’re saying things too, stuff about blood, and apparently they kidnapped children?”

  “That’s just idle chatter, but they used to tell stupid stories in those days too. I remember I had a friend, she wasn’t terribly bright, and one Sunday she went to a shop a Jewish woman had on our street; her mother must have sent her for something. Because in those days the Poles were open on Saturdays and the Jews on Sundays, so everyone was happy.”

  “And your friend…”

  “And my friend went to the shop on a Sunday, and as the church procession was passing by the Jewish woman closed the door to avoid causing offence, you see. And when that friend, I can’t even remember what her name was – Krysia, I think – when she saw that she started to tremble, thinking they wanted to have her for matzos. There was a hullabaloo, and my mother just happened to be in the shop, so she saved the situation, spanked Krysia on the backside and escorted her home. But there was such a dreadful uproar that actually half the town must have believed it. The idea that matzos were made like that, and that Jews went round catching people was absolute stuff and nonsense – it’s a shame to say it.”

  “But it’s hanging in the church. If it wasn’t true, they’d take it down, wouldn’t they?”

  “Because everything in church has to be the truth and nothing but, I suppose. Do use your head, Rafał.”

  “Well, yes, but the Catholic Poles didn’t get on very well with the Jews before the war, did they?”

  “And did the Poles get on well with the Poles? Have you young people just arrived yesterday from another planet? Do the Poles get on well with anyone? But I can tell you, I lived on one side of the market square, and there was a Jewish family on the other side, and they had a daughter the same age as me, whose name was Mala. And I often used to suffer from tonsillitis, so I had to stay at home on my own. Most of my friends didn’t want to waste the day stopping indoors with me, but Mala always came by. And I always used to say: ‘Daddy, go and fetch Mala, I’m going to play with her.’ Mala used to stay all day and play with me. So I have very fond memories of her.”

  “And what became of her?”

  “I don’t know, she went away somewhere. Off you go now. And do think a bit, I say, because it’s pitiful how stupid all that nonsense is. Blood to make matzos, I ask you…”

  “Don’t upset yourself, Granny…”

  “Off you go, I say. I’m tired, it’s late.”

  As soon as the young people had left, with a well-rehearsed gesture Granny Kołyszko removed a folded piece of newspaper that served as a lock for a small drawer in the sideboard, fetched out “Granma’s Liqueur”, half-filled a glass in a plastic holder and took a healthy swig, with the proficiency of someone who had knocked back her first drink at her cousin Jagódka’s wedding in 1936, at the age of sixteen. Jagódka’s mother had a shop and got on well with the Jews; she joked at the wedding that there weren’t many Catholic Poles in the cathedral, “just a whole church-full of Jews came along”. And when the procession went through the town, a whole group of wedding guests, all the Jewish girls came out: “Jagódka! May your life shine brightly!” She and Mala had walked along, holding hands and laughing out loud, and there were so many flowers – every tree in Sandomierz must have been blossoming that day.

  But Mala had gone, Granny Kołyszko thought, as she downed the rest of the liqueur. She remembered her leaving. Doctor Weiss had gone away then too, the man who had treated her tonsillitis since she was tiny. He was thrilled with the Germans, saying they were a civilized nation, that he had never seen the like before… they wouldn’t harm the Jews. Granny Kołyszko’s father had tried to persuade him: “Don’t sign, Doctor, don’t own up.” But he had insisted: “What do you mean? The Germans are civilized.” Apparently he poisoned himself on the loading ramp at Dwikozy. He didn’t board the train, he preferred to die like that. From the window she had seen them leading him away, and she had cried terribly, because she was fond of the doctor; the doctor had stared in at their windows as if he wanted to say goodbye, but her mother wouldn’t let her speak to him. Then Mrs Kielman had been walking along with her twins, two four-year-old girls, so lovely. A German had fired at one of them, that little girl had been left outside their house. What sort of people, what sort of a nation fires at a crying child? A small child being held by her mother, and that man comes up and shoots. Her father came home that evening and told them lots of their friends were there, and they’d wanted to save someone, give someone a hand, but it was completely impossible, they were entirely surrounded.

  And Mala had gone. The people who were there in Dwikozy said she had tripped and failed to jump across the ditch the Germans had dug opposite the station to test who was strong and fit. But how could Mala have failed to jump it? She was more nimble than all the women put together.

  She had never had a friend like that again.

  VIII

  When they dropped him at the garden gate and wished him good evening, he almost jumped down their throats. Swine, bloody swine promoted above their station; common country bumpkins with straw coming out of their mouths. The prosecutor was no better. Got his socialist-realist queers mixed up indeed – not surprising, probably the only classics he knew were by Sienkiewicz, whose novels every schoolboy had to read.

  He went into the house, threw his jacket on a hook, and without switching on the light poured himself half a glass of Metaxa. He had a weakness for the sugary Greek brandy. He sat in an armchair and closed his eyes. Before five minutes were up he was sobbing uncontrollably. He knew the theory, he knew he was still in the phase of disbelief and that this phase suited him, but sometimes pain broke through the disbelief, through the conviction that it was all just a game, a sham, and that when the show was over everything would be the same as before, a pain that drove him close to losing consciousness. At those moments all the images of the past few months flooded him in a wave, their happiest times, and definitely the happiest times in his life. Ela drinking coffee, the sleeve of her sweater pulled down so she wouldn’t burn her hand on the cup. Ela reading a book, with her feet up on the armrest of the sofa, her hair gathered on one shoulder so it wouldn’t get in the way. Ela winding hair round her finger. Ela joking. Ela babbling. Ela shouting at him. Ela, Ela, Ela.

  Suddenly he sensed he was not alone. His eyes had got sufficiently used to the darkness to make out a ghost – a dark figure sunk into a chair in the corner of the sitting room. The figure shuddered and stood up, then slowly came towards him. On this side it was brighter; although the lights were off, there was enough yellow lamplight coming in through the fog outside for him to see the figure’s features more and more clearly, until finally he recognized it.

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” he said.

  7

  Tuesday, 21st April 2009

  At ten a.m. on the dot, Israel comes to a standstill for two minutes as Yom HaShoah, Holocaust Day, is solemnly commemorated. At Auschwitz the March of the Living is held, and the Israeli deputy prime minister taking part in it compares Iran’s political line to that of Nazi Germany. Iranian public prosecutors announce that they will demand the death penalty for those caught producing pornographic Internet sites. In Belarus the ice-hockey trainer whose club dared to win against Alexander Lukashenko’s team loses his job – undefeated until now in the national championships, the president’s team has only ever been thrashed by the Russians. Poland’s MPs receive a government report on preparations for the Euro 2012 UEFA football championships (it’s not bad), the tax department refuses to allow cohabiting parents to be accounted for as a couple, and the Wrocław firewomen are complaining that they can’t go on operations because there are no ladies’ chang
ing rooms. It turns out communal changing rooms don’t bother them, even less their male colleagues. The weather is the same as yesterday – sunny but cold.

  I

  “Anyway, I’ll quote it to you, it has just been published in Your Weekend: ‘Broad-minded female, 30, seeks gentleman or gentlemen, 55 to 65, interested in erotic experiments, with no strings attached, but with plenty of tying up.’ And a sort of semicolon face to say it’s funny. ‘French without, chocolate starfish, two-hole snooker, bondage and a touch of pretend violence.’ And again a sort of face with a winking eye. And my phone number. You can imagine what happens when it says in this sort of paper there’s a woman looking for an over-the-hill bloke for erotic games, right? Half Poland calls. And the other half sends a text – look, here’s an advert from the Internet two weeks ago: ‘I like to talk dirty in texts, I’m bored out here in the country, I want a few dreams to wet my hasslebag…’”

  “Hasslebag?”