Primeval and Other Times

THE TIME OF MISIA

Misia put on two skirts and two sweaters and wrapped her head in a shawl. Silently, to avoid waking anyone, she crept out of the dugout. The forest was muffling the monotonous rumble of distant guns. She took a rucksack and was just about to set off when she saw Adelka. The child came up to her.

“I’m coming with you.”

Misia was cross.

“Go back to the dugout. Right now. I’ll be back in a moment.”

Adelka clutched her skirt tightly and began to cry. Misia hesitated. Then she went back to the dugout for her daughter’s little sheepskin coat.

Once they were standing at the edge of the forest, they thought they could see Primeval. But Primeval wasn’t there. Against the dark sky not the thinnest trail of smoke was visible, there were no lights shining, and no dogs barking. Only in the west, somewhere over Kotuszów, low clouds showed as a brown glow. Misia shuddered and an old dream came back to her, in which it had looked just like this. “I’m dreaming,” she thought. “I’m lying on the bunk in the dugout. I haven’t gone anywhere. This is in my dream.” And then she thought she must have fallen asleep even earlier. It seemed as if she were lying on her new double bed, with Paweł sleeping beside her. There was no war. She was having a long nightmare, about the Germans, the Russians, the front line, the forest, and the dugouts. That helped – Misia stopped feeling afraid and went out onto the Highway. Wet stones on the road crunched under her shoes. Then Misia had a hopeful thought that she had fallen asleep earlier still. Tired of monotonously turning the coffee grinder’s handle, she had fallen asleep on the bench outside the mill. She was only a few years old, and now she was having a child’s dream about adult life and war.

“I want to wake up,” she said aloud.

Adelka looked at her in amazement, and Misia realised that no child would be capable of dreaming the shooting of the Jews, the death of Florentynka, the partisans, what they had done to Ruta, the bombardments, the displacement, or her mother’s paralysis.

She looked upwards: the sky was like the lid of a can, in which God had shut the people.

They passed a dark silhouette, and Misia guessed it was their barn. She stepped onto the verge and stretched out a hand in the darkness. She touched the rough boards of the fence. She heard some faint noises, strange and muffled.

“Someone’s playing the accordion,” said Adelka.

They stood by the gate, and Misia’s heart began to pound. Her house was standing, she could sense it, though she could not see it. She could feel its large, quadrangular mass, she could feel its weight and the way it filled space. Feeling her way, she opened the gate and went onto the porch.

The music was coming from inside. The door from the porch into the hall was boarded up, just as they had left it, so they went to the kitchen entrance. The music became clearly audible. Some-one was playing jaunty songs on the accordion. Misia crossed herself, grabbed Adelka tightly by the hand, and opened the door.

The music fell silent. She saw her kitchen plunged in smoke and semi-darkness. There were blankets hanging over the windows. Soldiers were sitting at the table, by the walls, and even on the sideboard. Suddenly one of them aimed his rifle at her. Misia slowly raised her hands.

The gloomy lieutenant stood up from the table. He reached upwards for her hand and shook it in greeting.

“This is our landlady,” he said in Russian, and Misia curtsied awkwardly.

Among the soldiers was Ivan Mukta. His head was bandaged. From him Misia learned that her parents were living in the mill with the cow. Apart from that there was no one left in Primeval. Ivan took Misia upstairs and opened the door into the south-facing room for her. There before her Misia saw the wintry night sky. The south-facing room had ceased to exist, but she found it strangely unimportant. As she had been expecting the loss of the entire house, what did losing just one room mean?

“Mrs Misia,” said Ivan Mukta on the stairs, “you must take your parents away from there and hide in the forest. Straight after your Christmas the front will move. There’s going to be a terrible battle. Don’t tell anyone about it. It’s a military secret.”

“Thank you,” said Misia, and only after a pause did the full horror of his words get through to her. “Oh God, what’ll become of us? How will we manage in the forest in winter? What is this war for, Mr Ivan? Who’s running it? Why are you people going to a certain death and killing others?”

Ivan Mukta gazed at her sadly and didn’t reply.

Misia distributed knives to the tipsy soldiers for peeling potatoes. She fetched some lard that was hidden in the cellar and fried a big bowl of chips. They weren’t familiar with fried potato chips. At first they inspected them mistrustfully, but finally they started to eat them, with increasing relish.

“They don’t believe they’re potatoes,” explained Ivan Mukta.

More bottles of vodka appeared on the table, and the accordion started to play. Misia put Adelka to bed under the stairs, which seemed the safest place.

The presence of a woman excited the soldiers. They began to dance, first on the floor, and then on the table. The rest clapped to the beat of the music. They kept pouring vodka down their throats and were seized by a sudden madness – they stamped, shouted, and banged their rifles against the floor. Then a pale-eyed young officer drew a pistol from its holster and fired several shots into the ceiling. Plaster showered down into their glasses. Deafened, Misia covered her head with her hands. Suddenly it went quiet and Misia could hear herself screaming. From under the stairs the child’s terrified crying joined in with her.

The gloomy lieutenant yelled at the pale-eyed officer and touched his holster. Ivan Mukta knelt down beside Misia.

“Don’t be afraid, Misia. It’s just a bit of fun.”

They let Misia have a whole room. Twice she checked to make sure she had locked the door.

In the morning, when she went to the mill, the pale-eyed officer came up to her and said something apologetically. He showed her the ring on his finger and some documents. Out of nowhere as usual, Ivan Mukta appeared.

“He has a wife and child in Moscow. He says he’s very sorry for yesterday evening. It’s anxiety getting the better of him.”

Misia didn’t know what to do. On sudden impulse she went up to the man and hugged him. His uniform smelled of earth.

“Please try not to get killed, Mr Ivan,” she said to Mukta in parting.

He shook his head and smiled. Now his eyes looked like two dark dashes.

“People like me don’t die.”

Misia smiled.

“So goodbye,” she said.