The Story of a Life

56

Two Thousand Volumes

I found Romanin in the home of the village priest. The dark wooden house was set back in a garden, largely hidden behind thick clumps of nettles and celandine. Here and there a few crimson hollyhocks poked out among the weeds. The priest had not left Terespol with the refugees. He came out onto the porch along with Romanin to greet me. He was thin and tall and had lively eyes. His boots, turned a reddish brown from wear, showed beneath his old cassock. The priest blessed me, according to the custom of the times, and said in Russian: ‘My house is open to everyone. Just like the house of God. Come in, my son. Make yourself at home.’ He had a high-pitched childlike voice.

We went in. The windowpanes rattled as we walked. The priest opened the door of a gloomy, low-ceilinged room. The walls were lined with wooden shelves holding hundreds of books.

‘I don’t want to see the Germans!’ said the priest all of sudden, stopping in the doorway. He raised his large hands over his head, as if he were warding off an apparition. ‘May the Virgin Mary save me from them! I don’t want to lay my eyes on a single Prussian. Cursed be the vile night he was conceived on some filthy mattress under a portrait of Chancellor Bismarck!’

Romanin nudged me, but I didn’t understand what he was trying to warn me about.

‘The chancellor watched every one of these acts with his bulging eyes,’ the priest went on, ‘and said: “Ach, mein Gott! Here’s yet one more fine little soldier for the Vaterland. Ach, mein Gott, how good it is of you to send Germany all these ginger-haired lads.”’

The priest walked slowly around the room, running a hand over the spines of the books. It was as if he were counting them. Then he quickly turned and said to us in Polish: ‘I’ve been collecting these books all my life. Two thousand volumes of history. I wanted to save them, but where would I ever get enough carts? And so, you see, I’ve remained behind with them. You’re welcome to read them, any book you like, but I see you are very tired. Go and rest.’

The priest patted my shoulder with a dry, withered hand and went out, his cassock swishing.

‘He’s really something, no?’ Romanin asked. ‘We’ve become friends. What doesn’t he have here! Look – here’s a whole shelf devoted to Suvorov. And over here, Napoleon. Up there, the Middle Ages and the Church Fathers. ‘

I reached for a thick volume in a cracked black leather binding. It was Carlyle’s History of the French Revolution.

‘We’re off to Brest tomorrow at dawn,’ said Romanin, ‘and all this will be destroyed! All these books, along with their eccentric owner. Go and clean yourself up. You’re filthy. There’s a little banya in the garden. It’s good and hot.’

I went off to the banya. The steam bath was nothing more than a crooked little shack surrounded by nettles that had grown as tall as the eaves. The boiler was full of warm, muddy water. I picked up some rotten wood off the floor – bits of boards from an old fence – shoved it under the boiler and lit it. Damp air from the approaching evening streamed in through a broken window.

I got undressed and was amazed at how weighed down my clothes and boots were with dust. I sat for a long time on the bench, smoking, my mind blank, waiting for the water to heat up. I felt good here, alone in this brief lull of solitude, the fresh air drifting in from the garden. Midges danced in the pale shafts of sunlight. Tall weeds with white, umbrella-shaped flowers stood just outside the windows. It was so still I could hear the horses snorting in the garden where we had tethered them to some trees. Then from far off there came a slow rumbling that rolled over the roof of the banya and died away in the west.

A grey tomcat jumped up onto the sill, looked at me and miaowed with surprise. Next he walked around the walls of the entire banya before stopping to peer inside my dark, empty boots. He miaowed again, but this time as if asking for something, and began to rub himself against my legs. I could almost hear the sound his thick fur made. I stroked him. The cat purred with pleasure.

‘You’ve found a nice little spot for yourself far from the front!’ I said to the cat. ‘No one’s going to bother you here. No men in steel helmets will for some unknown reason hunt you down and try to kill you. How about we switch places?’

He pretended he hadn’t been listening to my words, and then slowly sauntered out of the banya without even bothering to look back.

‘You little pig!’ I said as he left. ‘Selfish little pig!’

I so wanted him to come back. I needed the presence of a living creature who had no idea of war and who thought that the world was just as good as it had been a month or a year ago, with the same butterflies fluttering about in the garden, the same quiet calm of a village sunset, and the same worn armchair in which to doze and then be awakened by a mysterious crackling emanating from the dry bindings on the shelves. I was exhausted, my mind a mess of thoughts and feelings. I wanted to clear my head and to be able to finally think for a moment of what had long been missing from my life – a bit of tenderness or a warm shoulder to lean on.

‘Mama,’ I said softly to myself, but immediately remembered her dry, tightly pressed lips and her worried face. No, she could not help me. But who then? I had lost Lëlya as well, and I’d never see her again. I had no one. Perhaps in the future, if there was to be one, I might meet someone with a kind soul.

Once more a slow, rumbling echo rolled across the roof. Jackdaws exploded from the elms around the house, cawing wildly as they flew. Romanin came up to the window.

‘What happened? Did you fall asleep?’ he asked. ‘The priest has found some cherry jam.’

‘I must have dozed off,’ I said.

‘You don’t look good,’ said Romanin. ‘What’s the matter? Hurry up and come in to tea.’

The church’s verger – an old man in a peasant coat – was laying out tea in the library. He had covered the round table with a cloth and set out a few glasses and a sugar bowl of thick, smoky glass. The cherry jam, as bright and red as a pomegranate, stood out against this dull background. We pulled out our provisions – tinned meat, hard tack and cranberry juice. That was all we had. The cat sauntered in. His name was Beelzebub. We invited the priest to the table. We all stood listening while he mumbled a brief blessing.

‘You have good manners, young men,’ he said with a smile.

We sat down.

‘May God’s blessings be upon you,’ he said. ‘May the Blessed Virgin watch over your every step. You don’t believe in her, of course. But that’s no matter! May she watch over you and stay the hand of the enemy.’

The priest moved his glass aside and turned to the verger, who was drinking his tea. ‘Janosz,’ he said, ‘go and unlock the church. We’ll pray through the night and tomorrow as well.’

‘Yes, Father,’ the verger replied softly and rose from the table. ‘Through the night and tomorrow as well.’

‘We shall pray for the souls of the men killed in the war.’

‘Yes, Father,’ the verger repeated in a low voice, ‘we shall pray for the souls of the men killed in the war.’

‘And then we shall celebrate a Mass for Poland, that she may rise from the ashes like the phoenix.’

‘Yes, Father, like the phoenix from the ashes.’

‘Amen!’ said the priest.

‘Amen!’ mumbled the verger, lowering his head.

The incantations of the priest together with the mumblings of the verger had made Romanin and me uncomfortable. The priest somehow noticed. He got up without saying a word and walked out. The verger limped after him.

I lay down on a couch covered with a black oilcloth, pulled my greatcoat over me and sank into a susurrating darkness. I woke up with a start. It seemed to be late at night. Through the open window I could hear soft noises coming from the dark of the garden, and then all was quiet again. Clouds had apparently rolled in, and the sky was black, devoid of stars and moon.

I was in the embrace of a deep silence, yet I was certain I had been woken by some sound. I lay there, waiting for its certain return. I wanted a cigarette but held off lighting a match for fear of disturbing the safe darkness of the night. I kept waiting. The longer I waited, the more I began to fear this still unknown sound.

I lay like this for a few minutes and then sat up with a jerk. My greatcoat fell to the floor with a long, heavy swoosh. The sound came back – jangling, drawn out, oppressive and terrifying, like some horrible cry. What was it? The sound reverberated for a long time, but just as it was dying away there came another, and then I recognised the measured tolling of the church bells. The priest was offering his solemn litany for the dead. I reached for my packet of cigarettes on the chair, but at that moment something whistled over the roof, followed by a crimson flame, the thud of an explosion and then a strange noise as if little stones were raining down on a cobbled street. Romanin jumped up and lit a candle. Another whistle overhead and another explosion, this one lighting up the entire garden.

‘We’re under attack!’ shouted Romanin. ‘Get dressed and then saddle the horses. I’ll see to the carts.’

Already dressed, I took an electric torch and went out into the garden. The horses had their ears pinned back and were straining at the ropes to free themselves. The other orderlies were by now awake and calling to each other. The edge of the village was in flames, and this light made it easier for us to get ready.

We hurried. The infantry was retreating in ragged groups through the village. As we drove past the church, I saw its doors had been thrown wide open. The light from the candles was dazzling. Apparently, the verger had lit every last one they had. A large crucifix loomed over the altar. The priest stood in his surplice on the steps of the church. He held a black cross high over his head. His battered old boots showed beneath his cassock. The verger stood behind him. When we had pulled even with him, the priest blessed us with the cross and called out loudly: ‘May the Holy Virgin, the Lily of the Heavens, the Mother of all Sufferers, protect and keep you!’

The flickering light from the burning village landed on the priest’s face and lacy surplice in such a way that it appeared he was smiling.

We left the village behind us. The gunfire died down. Dust from the horses and the wet smell of the bogs hung in the air. Off in the distance the cracked bell of the church was tolling again.

‘He’s bit off his rocker, I guess,’ said Romanin.

Ignoring him, I turned up the collar of my greatcoat and lit a cigarette. I was frozen to the bone. All I could think about was trying to get warm.