Katerina

24

YEARS PASSED, and a woman with the same name as mine arrived here. She was younger than I, from my village, and glad to see me. She told me at length about a quarrel over property, about the living, and about the dead. My murder had apparently made a big impression in the village. As after every horrible act, the village split into two camps. Some people thought I was justified and they blamed the Jews for whom I had worked, while others blamed me and my wanton character. She herself had been sentenced to life in prison for injuring her husband. Her husband had jabbed her with a pitchfork in the barn. She had snatched the tool from his hands and, with the very same tool, struck and wounded him.

I remembered her but not clearly. Our houses in the village were far apart, but sometimes we would meet in the pasture, at weddings, or in church. Even then she carried the anxious look of a hunted animal. I had not seen my village for years and it had even been erased from my dreams, but suddenly it rose again to life, a painful rebirth, with all its odors and colors.

“You haven’t changed,” she told me.

“How is that?”

“I would have known you right away.”

I remembered her. She had been about five, dressed in a long linen gown and standing next to the large animals and staring at them with a look of amazement. Something of that look remained in her eyes.

“What do people do here?” she asked me in a homey voice, the way you ask people in the village.

“They work.” I tried to make the moment milder.

She cried, and I didn’t know what to say to her. In the end I told her, “Don’t cry, dear. Lots of people have entered and left this place. A life sentence isn’t the final word. There are early releases and pardons.”

“Everybody hates me, even my children.”

“You have nothing to worry about. God knows the whole truth. Only He can judge you.” Barely had I pronounced the name of God when the anguish was wiped from her face, her eyes opened wide, and she looked at me with that gaze from her childhood.

“I thought about you a lot,” she said.

“There’s nothing to worry about, we’re not all alone.”

“Who could have imagined we’d meet here?”

“It’s not such a dreadful place,” I went on, to distract her.

“Does anyone visit here?” the poor thing kept on asking.

“There’s no need for visits. Here a person minds his own business.”

“A Jewish lawyer defended me. I don’t believe in the Jews. They always talk a lot, but their mouths and hearts are not the same. A life sentence is better than being defended by Jews. They run around everywhere.”

I let her hatred seethe and sensed that the seething eased her pain. Afterward, I offered her an illicit sip of liquor. The drink calmed her, and her face returned to her. She said, “Thanks, Katerina. May God watch over you. Without you, what would I do here?”

“What did they say about me in the village?” I tried to amuse her.

“That the Jews put a spell on you.”

“Do you believe that?”

We both laughed.

The days passed, and no one came to visit her. In the winter there were hardly any visits. The prison is remote and access difficult. Only my lawyer showed up, appearing as regularly as clockwork.

“Why take the trouble?” I reprimanded him.

“I’m your lawyer, aren’t I? Doesn’t a lawyer have to find out how his clients are?”

“True, but you have to watch your health. Health comes before everything.”

During the past two years he had aged. His clothing had become ragged, his lower lip, which had been a bit swollen and blue, seemed to have become bluer still. A cigarette was always stuck to it. On that cold day his face expressed neither goodheartedness nor wisdom; a kind of iciness suffused it. The whole time, he rubbed his hands together and said, “It’s cold, cold out.” Why did you come then? I wanted to scold him, but instead I said, “In your office, there’s a heater.”

“What office are you talking about? It’s been a long time since I’ve had an office.”

“You need an office, don’t you?” I said, and I didn’t know what I was talking about.

“I have no need for an office anymore,” he said, waving his right hand.

The winds blew in, hurling their drafts into the exposed anteroom. I remembered my first meeting with him in the midst of the angry crowd of gendarmes, wardens, and attorneys. He had seemed shorter than all of them to me, thin and embarrassed.

“I’m your lawyer,” he’d introduced himself. “I’ll try to defend you with all my might. Your case is a complicated one, but we’ll prevail.”

“What can I give you?” I had asked him then, very stupidly.

“There’s no need for anything.”

Now the same man was standing before me, only more impoverished. The cigarette on his blue lip seemed to be stuck there from the time I’d first seen him.

“Where do you live?”

“I have a room in town. My parents live in a village. I sometimes visit them. They aren’t pleased with me.”

“Why aren’t they pleased with you?”

“Once they wanted me to marry,” he said, and smiled.

“You didn’t miss anything.”

“My parents had great hopes for me. I’m an only son. They worked hard all their lives, and they invested their savings in me so that I could study at the university. I wanted to study painting, but they didn’t consent. They didn’t appreciate painting, so I studied what they wanted.”

“You’re a successful lawyer.” I tried to encourage him.

“It’s hard to say I’m successful. I don’t have an office, and I don’t know how to collect fees, either. But I’m not going to change, apparently.”

A kind of spirit seized me, and I told him, “You defended me excellently. With all your might.”

“In my opinion, you should have been found innocent.”

“I’m not sure.”

“I am.”

He fastened his coat and was about to leave. Buttoned up now, he looked even shorter. I very much wanted to give him something of my own for the road, but I didn’t have anything. “Don’t go out in the storm.” I wanted to delay him.

“I’m not afraid. An hour’s walk—and I’m at the railroad station.”

“It’s not worth taking the risk in this weather.” I spoke to him in an old-fashioned way. The guard in the hut didn’t press us. In that season, everyone is busy keeping his limbs warm. The watchman was also stamping his feet.

“Don’t go to the village. You won’t change your parents, and they won’t change you. Everyone to his own fate.”

He was surprised by my voice for a moment and said, “All these years I caused them only unhappiness. I very much want to visit them, but I don’t dare. It’s hard for me to bear their looks. They don’t reprimand me anymore. My father even gave me a little money—but it isn’t right to take money from an old man. They’ve worked hard all their days.”

“Are you observant?”

“You’ve touched a sore point. It’s hard for my parents to accept that their only son is making his way through the world without faith. If I were successful at my profession, they would certainly forgive me.”

At that moment I felt a strong physical attraction for that little, troubled man, the way I had felt once toward Sammy. My dear, I was about to tell him, I’m willing to be your servant, your concubine, to clean your room and wash your shirt. My body’s not holy. I love you because you have a light that warms my soul. It’s hard for me to bear the coarseness of the women here.

“I’ll be seeing you,” he said, and raised his hand.

“When?”

“I’ll come in a month.”

“Thank you. I’ll be expecting you.”

“To my regret, I didn’t bring you good news.”

“But your very coming, your being here…”

At that moment a great storm was raging outside, a black storm. Through the cracks in the door I could see him as he headed off, and the wind swung him on its wings.