“We can return to hunting.”
“No, Daughter, we cannot. We have destroyed a sizable part of our forest, we have driven off the animals. We no longer have tents to take along on a hunt. Instead, we have houses with chimneys and floors. And worst of all, we have no men. Until our boys grow up, famine can wipe out the camp. Wait, I’ll bring something for you to put on.”
“I am not cold.”
“I am cold.”
Cybula opened the door to the living quarters and went in. Yagoda slept on, unaware of the visitor in the next room. He left with two pelts, one for Laska and one for himself. He put a straw mat on the floor for Laska to sit on, and he sat down next to her. “Where did you leave Ptashek?”
“With old Malenka. I nursed him before I left.”
“Why do you nurse him still? It is time he was weaned.”
“Ptashek likes my milk. If I give him other food he spits it out.”
“In my time women used to smear their nipples with coal soot,” Cybula said. “It nauseated the little infants, and thus they were weaned. I remember when my mother did it to my sister Milutka.”
“I tried it, too. Nothing helps. He has teeth and he bites the nipple until I cry out with pain. And what will I do with the milk? My breasts are full.”
“Once he stops sucking, your milk will dry up.”
Father and daughter sat still for a long time. The lightning had stopped, but the rain kept falling in torrents. Suddenly Laska said, “Tatele, I need a man.”
Something broke inside Cybula. With tears in his eyes, he embraced her warmly. “Oh, my daughter!”
11
The New Krol
One morning, after the harvest had ended, Cybula sat with Nosek, trying to determine how the wheat should be distributed. They had to decide how much should be stored for sowing the following year and whether more ground should be cleared of trees and shrubs to extend the cultivated fields. Cybula also had a quiet talk with Nosek concerning his daughter, saying that Laska was too young a woman to remain a widow. Nosek frankly confessed that the opposite sex held no attraction for him, but said that he would marry Laska if that was what she and her father wanted. But to father her children? That was unlikely. In jest Cybula said he hoped Laska would have at least one other child, so that Ptashek would be provided with a brother or sister. Nosek wisely answered, “We can try,” and Cybula doubted that the marriage would take place.
Suddenly loud voices were heard, and the sound of horses’ hooves. Cybula and Nosek went out; before them stood nearly thirty riders, in flaxen coats, leather boots, fur hats, wearing swords on their hips and carrying spears. At their head, on a white horse with an ornamented saddle, rode a man with a long mustache and a hat from which a feather dangled. His coat was richly embroidered with red and white threads. There were spurs on his boots. Two riders sounded the trumpets and shouted, “Nabok, nabok!” meaning that pedestrians should move aside and make way for the riders. The pan in charge had apparently asked the onlookers for their krol, because when Cybula and Nosek appeared at the door they heard voices shouting, “There he is! Here is our krol!”
The pan with the long mustache was short and broad-shouldered, with a pockmarked face. He stopped his horse and in a hoarse voice asked, “This is your krol—barefoot?”
Cybula, recovering his composure, replied, “We are a small and poor camp. We had one shoemaker, and he has left us.”
“What is your name, krol?”
“Cybula.”
“Cybula, eh? And why not Radish or Garlic?”
The riders all burst into laughter. Several horses seemed frightened by the noise and made a move as if to bolt, but the riders held them back. Cybula answered, “This is what my father named me.”
“Your father, eh? You know, Cybula, that you are no longer their krol, or even a sub-krol. From this day on I am your krol, your pan, your leader.” The rider on the white horse turned toward the camp. “I know that you call yourselves Lesniks, but from now on, all who live on this land and speak the Polish tongue will be known as Poles. We do not come to you as enemies but as brothers, we are of one family. I was told that you have no young men, that your camp is composed of women, children, and old men. But my boys here are strong and daring fighters, and what others want they want as well: vodka and women. Pravda?”
“Pravda! Pravda!” the riders shouted in unison.
“I was told that you began to construct a wall around your camp. Even a frog could leap over your wall. You deceive yourselves if you think you can resist us. Our swords are sharp and our spears are aimed straight at your navels. We will give you bread, clothing, shoes, but in return we demand full loyalty and complete obedience. Should anyone raise a hand against us, we will chop off that hand. Should anyone speak against us, we will tear his or her tongue out. Is this clear?”
No one answered.
“Is this clear, Cybula?”
“Yes, clear.”
“The wall that you began to build you will take down. No wall should separate one Pole from another. I myself and the boys here wish to have houses to live in, food in abundance, enough honey, barley, and fruit to brew mead and other spirits. All this you will provide for us in full. We do not wish to rape your women, but women were created to serve men’s needs and all of us here have plenty of needs. Pravda, boys?”
“Pravda! Pravda!”
“My name is Krol Yodla, and that is how you will address me. I will receive anyone who comes to seek my favor, but you will come on your knees, and with your heads bowed. So shall it be with the men, and so also with the women. The two men behind me are my kniezes, Kniez Woll and Kniez Niedzwiedz. They will convey my orders to you. You may also choose an elder from among yourselves, a starszy, who will speak for you. If you wish, you may choose your Cybula, but he will have to put on shoes and not walk barefoot like a beggar.”
“I do not wish to be a starszy,” Cybula said. His throat was so dry that he could barely pronounce the words.
“You do not wish, eh? No one asked what your wishes are. From now on, you are the starszy of this camp. Who is this long skinny one standing at your side?” Krol Yodla pointed his finger at Nosek.
“My name is Nosek.”
“Nosek? And why not Nos?”
“That is my name.”
“From now on your name will be Nos. Are you one of the Lesniks?”
“No, Krol Yodla. I am a Pole. I came here with Krol Rudy, who has recently died.”
“I was informed of everything. With me there can be no secrets. Even before a man begins to think evil of me, I know it, and I order my boys to chop off his head. An enemy without a head—that we can tolerate; Pravda, boys?”
“Pravda! Pravda!”
“We Poles have many enemies; some are hidden and others are known to us. We have rid ourselves of most of them, but not all. We want to become one large nation, to speak one language, to live in one land. But our enemies want us splintered, divided into small camps, speaking many tongues and serving many foreign gods, so that the Russians, the Germans, the Czechs may rip us apart, enslave us, exact tolls from us, rape our women. But they will never triumph. Much blood may be shed, but in the end the victory shall be ours. Many of our heroes may be rotting in the earth, but their names and deeds will live forever. Do you have a wife, Starszy Cybula?”
“Yes, Krol Yodla.”
“What is her name?”
“Yagoda.”
“Yagoda, eh? Cybula and Yagoda. A pungent onion and a sweet berry. That should be easy to remember. Pravda, boys?”
“Pravda, pravda!”
(2)
Cybula had expected that Krol Yodla would immediately take over his, Cybula’s, house, or the house occupied by Laska. But the day was nearly over and Krol Yodla was nowhere to be seen. Kora came to tell him that the krol and his riders had settled in the huts which remained unoccupied after the woyaks were gone. Several of the new woyaks moved into the hut where Ben Dosa had lived. Others occu
pied cabins used for storing wheat, some moved into the horse stables, and still others into the workshop where Czapek kept plows, scythes, sickles, and other valuables that had been bought in Miasto. Although the day was sunny and warm, few of the camp’s people ventured outside their huts. Even the children did not come out to play. All thoughts of resistance had evaporated. None of the women, and certainly none of the old men, could stand up to these young armed riders. Inasmuch as Krol Yodla had assured them that he came as a friend, not a foe, the girls and the younger widows began to wash and primp themselves, to comb their hair, and to put on the dresses they had worn for Cybula’s wedding with Yagoda, as well as the shoes Ben Dosa had sewn for them.
After Krol Yodla rode off with his men toward the field, Nosek returned with Cybula to his house, and the two men spoke in low voices for a long time. Laska came in, bringing with her bad news: Ptashek was ill. His little face was hot to the touch, he refused to suck her breast, and he barely opened his eyes. Cybula, who, among other things, was also the camp doctor, said that he could not know, on this the first day, what ailed the boy. Ptashek might have caught the measles, smallpox, or scarlet fever. Laska left her father and Nosek and returned to her house, weeping.
Both the men and the women walked about in a stubborn, heavy silence. There was no knowing what nightfall would bring. The sun went down wreathed in crimson, leaving behind it flaming clouds. The birds, as always, settled on the branches of the few remaining trees, as well as on roofs and chimneys. The crickets chirped, the frogs croaked. Stars kept dashing across the heavens, becoming lost or extinguished behind the mountain peaks. In the evening Yagoda roasted on coals the side of a young deer which Cybula had shot earlier with his bow. Then husband and wife sat and ate their meal in silence. The evening before, Kora had brought her daughter a pot of cooked berries, and Cybula and Yagoda added them now to their evening meal. Yagoda’s lips and cheeks were stained with the black juice, and she looked more than ever like a young girl.
Since Cybula had foiled Kora’s plan to sacrifice Kosoka, silent tension and unspoken anger separated the former lovers. Kora no longer came to lie in the bed he shared with Yagoda, and when she spoke to him her eyes remained downcast. She was not alone; others in the camp were resentful. When Krol Yodla and his riders appeared, several old hags predicted that these invaders would wreak Baba Yaga’s revenge.
On most summer evenings the camp’s people had no reason to light their torches. They could eat by the light of the fire they built for cooking their meal. Cybula, however, often lit a wick in a small bowl that was filled with seed oil. He had learned from Ben Dosa, and later from Nosek, to convert the alphabet letters to numbers. Aleph was 1, beth—2, gimel—3, yodh—10, kaph—20, and so on until kuf, which was 100. When he wanted to write the number 11, Cybula wrote a yodh followed by an aleph, and 12 was a yodh followed by a beth. It was not easy for him to learn all these numbers, but he finally handled them easily. He could use some of the letters to sign his name and to write some words, even whole sentences, in the Polish tongue. No letters existed for several soft sounds in his language, but Ben Dosa had shown him that he needed only to put a small mark over the zayin, the tzadik, or the shin—and they, too, would become soft. Sometimes Cybula spent long hours writing the letters on a block of wood or carving them in bark. For Cybula, who had charge of an entire camp’s accounts, these scribblings were exceedingly useful.
That evening Cybula had no accounts to occupy him, but still he sat and carved some words in bark. Yagoda asked him what he planned to do, now that he was no longer krol, and Cybula snapped, “I was not born a krol, you know.”
“For me you will always be my krol and my god,” Yagoda said.
Cybula busied himself a while longer with his writings, and then he turned out the light and lay in his bed beside his wife. Now that Kora was gone, Yagoda no longer dropped off to sleep so quickly. Yagoda had grown more excited at night. She was saying playfully, “When I have our child, you will suck my breasts every night.”
“If I am still alive at that time.”
“Why should you not be? You are not so old,” Yagoda said.
“Our new krol will put an end to my life.”
“Why? He said he came to us as our brother.”
“Brothers sometimes kill each other,” Cybula said. And he reminded Yagoda of Cain and Abel, of whom they had learned from Ben Dosa.
Ben Dosa was gone, and he would probably never return. But he was not forgotten, Everyone in the camp repeated the same sentiment: his body had vanished but his ducha, or soul, had remained behind. The children often spoke of him. After weeks of idleness, after they had helped the grownups to gather fruit and dig up roots, they felt the need for study, they longed to read and to write, to listen to stories again. Whenever they played, one of the older children would become their Ben Dosa, teaching them the alphabet, reciting “I thank thee, O Lord,” inventing all sorts of miracles for them.
That night Cybula and Yagoda made love several times. Speaking of the child in Yagoda’s belly, Cybula asked her whether she already felt the being that lived inside her, and Yagoda answered, “It is still too early. Later it will start to kick. What shall we name it? I know! Let’s call it Cybula.”
“And why not Radish?” Cybula said, repeating Krol Yodla’s joke.
At that moment someone opened the door, which Cybula had forgotten to lock. Startled, he sat up in bed. “Who is it?” he called out.
A man’s voice answered, “Don’t shout. Don’t be frightened. My name is Paletz. It used to be Shliwka. I used to be a woyak here in the camp, but I left with the others some time ago. Now I came back with Krol Yodla. Do you remember me?”
“Certainly, Shliwka.”
“I also remember you,” Yagoda said.
“Yes, I am Shliwka. There were six of us, but along the way we quarreled and fought. Two of us were killed, and the others vanished—the devil knows where. I roamed the countryside alone, until I joined Krol Yodla’s riders. I was always skilled with horses, if you remember.”
“Yes, yes. Why did you come to us in the middle of the night?”
“Stay where you are! Don’t stand up! If you do—I’ll slip a knife into your belly. I’ll also kill your wife, that fool, Yagoda. I know all about you. Your sweetheart Kora, Yagoda’s mother, killed my best friend, Lis. Keep quiet, Yagoda. If you make a sound, you’ll die!”
“What do you want?” Cybula asked.
“The loot. I know that you hid Krol Rudy’s booty somewhere. Before we woyaks left the camp we looked for it, but we could not find it. You were away that day. The loot belongs to Krol Rudy and his men. We, his men, fought to get it. And now that the others are gone, I am his only heir. Tell me where it is or I’ll cut you to pieces.”
For a moment Cybula said nothing. “Don’t threaten me. If you want to kill, kill. No one dies twice, anyway.”
“I don’t want to kill you. I want the loot.”
“Cybula, tell him everything!” Yagoda shouted. “Your life is more precious than his treasure!”
“Yes, I’ll tell him,” Cybula answered. “I don’t need his gold. But what, Shliwka, will you do with it? The bag is heavy. Too heavy for one man to carry. If the others see you with it, they’ll put an end to your life.”
“That is not for you to worry about,” Shliwka said. “I’ll load it on my horse, and ride away tonight. I have no use for Krol Yodla and his gang of bandits and gluttons. Where is the loot?” Shliwka raised his voice.
“It is buried in the clearing behind Krol Rudy’s house,” Cybula said. “There are three trees there: two horse chestnuts and one linden. The booty is buried under the linden tree.”
“How deep?”
“Not deep.”
For a while no one spoke. Then Shliwka said, “I know your daughter lives in that house with her child. If you have deceived me, they will both be dead. Mark my words.”
“I did not deceive you. If you’ll dig under the linden tree you
’ll find your treasure. But how will you dig in the dark?”
“That is not your business. Everything is prepared, two shovels, two horses. I planned it long ago. You stay here and keep quiet. I am not alone; I have a friend, a partner. If you do anything foolish, you’ll be dead—you, Yagoda, your daughter, your grandson. Also your mother-in-law, Kora, the whore.”
“I will do nothing,” Cybula said.
“Before I leave I want to tell you something, something that will displease you, but it’s true,” Shliwka said. “Let me speak to you man to man. We woyaks always liked you, and you were not a stranger to us. Your daughter was our krol’s wife. You wanted peace with us. It was Kora who persuaded you to rebel.”
“What is it that you want to tell me?”
“The woyaks know that Kora betrayed you all the time. She lay with you at night, but during the day she came to me and to other woyaks and she lay with us. She complained that you were too old, and that one male could not fulfill her needs.”
“My matka?” Yagoda began to choke and cough.
“Be quiet, Yagoda!” Cybula’s mouth filled with a bitter fluid. “You lie,” he managed to say to the woyak.
“I tell you the truth. I swear by my mother’s bones and by all the gods. She showed me the mark you carved on her breast. She told me you called her kurczak—chicken—and that you have a birthmark on your belly.”
“Aha.”
“I tell you all this because I like you. And I loathe her. Let me tell you more. We will not take away the entire treasure. We will leave a bit of it for you. Krol Yodla will not behave himself forever. Sooner or later he will begin to whip and to slaughter, he and his bandits. He killed his own father, you know. If you escape to Miasto with your wife and your daughter, you’ll be able to start a new life. Me, I want to go far away from here. Perhaps to the river Bug, perhaps even farther. Remember my words. If I am lying to you, may my body rot before I die.”
“I believe you, Shliwka, and I thank you.”
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