Primeval and Other Times

THE TIME OF IZYDOR

The young, slant-eyed officer was called Ivan Mukta. He was adjutant to a gloomy lieutenant with blood-shot eyes.

“The lieutenant likes your house. It’ll be his quarters,” he said cheerfully in Russian, and took the lieutenant’s things into the house. As he did so, he pulled faces that made the children laugh, but not Izydor.

Izydor took a close look at him and thought here he was seeing someone truly foreign. Although they were evil, the Germans looked the same as the people from Primeval. If it weren’t for the uniforms, it would be impossible to tell them apart. The same went for the Jews from Jeszkotle – maybe they had slightly browner skin and darker eyes. But Ivan Mukta was different, not like anyone. His face was round and chubby, a strange colour – like looking into the stream of the Black River on a sunny day. Ivan’s hair sometimes seemed dark blue, and his lips were like mulberries. Strangest of all were his eyes – narrow as chinks, hidden under elongated eyelids, black and piercing. And no one could have known what they were expressing. Izydor found it hard to look at them.

Ivan Mukta accommodated his lieutenant in the largest, nicest room on the ground floor, where the clock stood.

Izydor found a way to watch the Russian – he climbed into the lilac tree and peeped into the room from there. The gloomy lieutenant stared at maps spread out on the table, or sat still, leaning over his plate.

Whereas Ivan Mukta was everywhere. Once he had given the lieutenant his breakfast and polished his boots, he set about helping Misia in the kitchen: he chopped wood, took food out for the hens, picked currants for jam, played with Adelka, and drew water from the well.

“It’s very nice of you, Mr Ivan, but I can manage by myself,” said Misia to begin with, but evidently she came to like it.

Over the first few weeks Ivan Mukta learned to speak Polish.

Izydor’s most important task was not to lose sight of Ivan Mukta. He watched him the whole time, and was afraid that if he let him out of sight the Russian would become lethally dangerous. He was also worried about Ivan’s advances to Misia. His sister’s life was in danger, so Izydor sought excuses to be in the kitchen. Sometimes Ivan Mukta tried to accost Izydor, but the boy was so affected by this that he slobbered and stammered with redoubled energy.

“He was born like that,” sighed Misia.

Ivan Mukta would sit at the table and drink vast amounts of tea. He brought sugar with him – either loose, or in soiled lumps that he kept in his mouth as he drank the tea. At these times he would tell the most interesting stories. Izydor’s manner displayed complete indifference, but on the other hand the Russian said such interesting things… Izydor had to keep pretending he had something important to do in the kitchen. It was hard to spend a whole hour drinking water or laying the fire. The infinitely resourceful Misia would shove a bowl of potatoes her brother’s way, and put a knife in his hand. One day Izydor drew air into his lungs and spluttered:

“The Russkies say God doesn’t exist.”

Ivan Mukta put down his glass and looked at Izydor with those impenetrable eyes of his.

“It’s not about whether God exists or not. It’s not like that. To believe, or not to believe, that is the question.”

“I believe God exists,” said Izydor, boldly thrusting out his chin. “If He does, then it matters to me that I believe. If He doesn’t, it doesn’t cost me anything to believe.”

“You think well,” Ivan Mukta praised him. “But it’s not true that believing costs nothing.”

Misia started furiously stirring the soup with a wooden spoon and cleared her throat.

“What about you? What do you think? Does God exist, or not?”

“It’s like this.” Ivan splayed four fingers at face height, and Izydor thought he winked at him. He put out the first finger.

“Either God exists and has always existed, or” – here he added the second finger – “God doesn’t exist and never has. Or else” – the third appeared – “God used to exist, but no longer does. And finally,” – here he poked all four fingers at Izydor – “God doesn’t yet exist and has yet to appear.”

“Izek, go and fetch some wood,” said Misia in the same tone as when the men were telling filthy jokes.

Off went Izydor, thinking about Ivan Mukta the whole time, and that Ivan Mukta must have a lot more to say.

A few days later he finally managed to catch Ivan all on his own. He was sitting on a bench outside, cleaning a rifle.

“What’s it like where you live?” Izydor asked boldly.

“Exactly the same as here. Except there’s no forest. There’s one river, but it’s very big and very far off.”

Izydor did not take this topic further.

“Are you old or young? We can’t guess how old you might be.”

“I’ve clocked up a few years.”

“But could you be… seventy, say?”

Ivan burst out laughing and put down the gun. He didn’t answer.

“Ivan, do you think there’s a chance that God might not exist? Then where would all this have come from?”

Ivan rolled a cigarette, then inhaled and pulled a face.

“Look around you. And what can you see?”

“I can see the road, and fields and plum trees beyond it, and grass in between them…” Izydor gave the Russian an inquiring look. “And further on the forest, and there are sure to be mushrooms there, except you can’t see them from here… And I can also see the sky, blue underneath, and white and swirling on top.”

“And where’s this God?”

“He’s invisible. He’s underneath it. He guides and runs it all, He makes the laws and adapts everything to fit Him…”

“Very good, Izydor. I know you’re clever, though you don’t look it. I know you’ve got an imagination.” Ivan lowered his voice and began to speak very slowly. “So now imagine there isn’t any God, as you say, underneath. That no one takes care of it all, that the whole world is just one big mess, or, even worse, like a sort of machine, a broken chaff-cutter that only works on blind impulse…”

And Izydor looked again, just as Ivan Mukta had told him to. He strained his entire imagination and opened his eyes wide, until they started to water. Then for a brief moment he saw everything completely differently. Open space, empty and endless, stretched away in all directions. Everything within this dead expanse, every living thing was helpless and alone. Things were happening by accident, and when the accident failed, automatic law appeared – the rhythmical machinery of nature, the cogs and pistons of history, conformity with the rules that was rotting from the inside and crumbling to dust. Cold and sorrow reigned everywhere. Every creature was trying to huddle up to something, to cling to something, to things, to each other, but all that resulted was suffering and despair.

The quality of what Izydor saw was temporality. Under a colourful outer coating everything was merging in collapse, decay, and destruction.