Stone Upon Stone (34 page)

But he didn’t have time to learn. They shot him not long after that, no one knew why. He was going home on his bicycle like he did every day, because he lived in the old farmhands’ quarters in Bartoszyce, and something went wrong with the gears on his bike, so he was pushing it through the woods. In the morning they found him on the road, he had three bullets in his chest and a piece of paper pinned to his jacket: Death to the red stooges. His bicycle was lying on top of him.

The first wedding I gave was for Stach Magdziarz from Lisice and Irka Bednarek from Kolonie. Irka wore a kind of green outfit, Stach had a brown pinstriped suit. Stach’s mother was getting on, Irka worked at the mill. Stach hadn’t gone to church since the war because the priest wouldn’t give him absolution. It was because one time the priest had been on his way to administer last rites to a sick man, and here there was a fire at Sapiela’s place in Kolonie. All the horses were out working in the fields and there was nothing to hitch to the fire engine. So without a second thought Stach flagged down the priest’s wagon and hitched his horses to the fire engine, and off they went. It wasn’t such a big sin, because the sick man was only at the end of the village and it wouldn’t have hurt the priest to walk the rest of the way.

The mayor came, and the district secretary, and two other officials, to see how I did with my first wedding. I felt a bit awkward and a couple of times I got the words wrong, but it went more or less okay. Afterwards, Stach and I went to the pub and got so drunk we passed out. Because Irka would only
have one drink, we couldn’t convince her to have another. She sat there like she was all worried and kept asking over and over whether they were going to be happy now they were married. I had to swear at least three times that they would be. I even stood them a bottle out of my own pocket, for that happiness of theirs. And they were happy, till Stach got ulcers in his stomach and died.

Before you could say Jack Robinson I’d figured out how to give weddings, and soon marrying people was no harder than eating a slice of bread for me. Like I’d been marrying people since God knows when. Though really, what was the big deal. To start off you said a few official words. Do you, Piotr, Jan, Władysław, Kazimierz, take Helena, Wanda, Bronisława, or whoever to be your lawful wedded wife, do you swear to love and honor her till death do you part. I do. And do you, Helena, Wanda, Bronisława, and so on. I do. Then you put the rings on their fingers, if they had rings. You said that they were married in the eyes of the law. Then you added something from yourself. I wish you a life spread with roses, and you should respect one another, because from this moment on you’re the closest one of all for each other.

I always spoke from the heart and the words pretty much flowed of their own accord, so whenever I was giving a marriage everyone in the offices would set aside their work and come down to watch and listen, even if it was through the half-open door. When the window in the room was open as well, it’d be lined with the heads of people listening outside, like flowerpots. Because the people that had come to the administration to get their business done, they wanted to see it as well. May you always help each other in hard times and in misfortune. May you never show anger, but always treat each other well, like land and sky. May you never be the source of worries for one another, because life itself will put enough worries in your way. Don’t ever curse one another, don’t insult each other, and may neither of you ever raise a hand against the other. If you do, may that hand wither. And not just because that’s what people always say, but because you, husband, and you,
wife, together you’re like the hands of a single body, her the left, you the right. Your body is one. If one of you is struck down by illness, or is in pain, or if one of you weeps tears, it’s all yours in common. You, wife, you’ll never be able to say that you’re not the one in pain. Nor you, husband, that you’re not the one weeping. And may you both remember that you’ll not be young forever. How much of life is youth? The tiniest part, less than springtime out of the whole year. Your woman will get wrinkles, you’ll become an old man and go bald or gray, and then it’s hardest of all to be husband and wife. At that time some couples are at each other’s throats, though neither of them has done anything wrong. They’d kill the other one soon as look at them, though once upon a time they loved each other. Just remember that conflict never brought any relief to anyone, and you have to go on living till everything ends of itself. So it’s better to live in harmony. Because you haven’t gotten married only for a short time, till your youth passes, but until you stop being old as well. From now on you’re like that tree outside the window.

In front of the offices there happened to be a huge maple that remembered the times when there was no district administration, just the four-flat buildings where they used to keep the cholera patients. In the summer people that had come to do business at the offices would wait in its shade, and you often had to tell them to be quiet because they’d talk as loud as if it was market day. Quiet there! There’s a wedding going on! So then, you, husband, you’re like the trunk of the tree, and she’s like its branches. If you cut off the branches the trunk will dry up, and if you chop down the trunk the branches will dry up. I wish you good fortune, good health, and handsome children. Now you may kiss each other. Then I’d go for a glass of vodka with the newlyweds, because although it was mostly poorer folk that got married at the registry office, they’d always invite you for a drink.

For all the marriages I gave, there was only one time they had a proper wedding party afterward. The Kowaliks’ son Józef was marrying Zośka Siekiera. His old folks slaughtered a hog and hired a band. They invited a
few relatives and neighbors, and me as well. It wasn’t about the young folks getting married, more that old Kowalik had too much land for those times and people were always accusing him of being a kulak and a parasite because he still kept a farmhand. Though the farmhand never complained, and when people asked him he even used to say he was better off with Kowalik than he would have been on his own. Actually Kowalik might not have had to worry about being called a kulak and a parasite, but when they started raising his quotas every year, in the end it was too much for him. He came running to the offices one day and said that either we should take his land from him, or he’d hang himself.

“I don’t want any land!” he shouted, waving his arms. “I don’t want it if all it’s gonna do is bring me harm! Take it away from me! Plow it, seed it, mow it, set aside any amount you like! It said in the prophecies of the Queen of Sheba there’d come a time when the farmers would be giving back the land of their own accord! Now it’s come true!”

At that time Mayor Rożek told him there was no need for him to give his land away like that or hang himself. Kowalik had a son, Józef. He should have Józef get married as soon as he could, because there were deadlines coming up, and he could divide his farm into two. Who should he marry? Anyone, whoever’s available. Afterwards, if they don’t hit it off they can get divorced. It won’t be a church wedding because the registry office isn’t a church and Szymon Pietruszka isn’t a priest. But in the books it’ll be written in stone that there are two medium-sized farms, and medium-sized farms aren’t a problem for anyone. Because it would have been easier to get married and divorced three times over than reduce the quotas by a single hundredweight.

They chose Zośka Siekiera for the job, because she happened to live next door and she was poor as a church mouse. And she could only dream of marrying a rich man like Józef. For her it made no difference whether she had a church wedding or one in the registry office, whether it was for her
whole life or just till they could reregister the farm, with banns or without, in a veil or in a regular dress, in front of a priest or in front of me. She would have stood before the devil in hell if only she’d been able to marry Józef.

Kowalik stuck five hundred zlotys in my pocket so I wouldn’t make any speeches, just marry them and have done with it. Three months hadn’t gone by when he was already trying to get them to separate. Except that at that point, Józef put his foot down and said no. He hadn’t gotten married just so he could get divorced again right afterward. He’d taken Zośka to be his wife, not his serving woman, and he wouldn’t let them do wrong by her. And now that the land had been reregistered, his father could kiss his backside. At most he’d stay on his land, and his father could work his own.

But as long as the old man lived, and he lived a long time, Zośka didn’t have an easy time of it. Whenever he talked about her he’d only ever call her that beggar, that slut, that stray. He’d sometimes even kick her out of the house, he’d say, this isn’t your place, get back over the fence, that’s where you belong. Even when they had a child the old man didn’t soften a bit. He never once minded the baby or played with it the way other grandfathers do, when they laugh with their grandsons and talk to them and tell them all sorts of wonders about the world. Plus he kept on saying bad things the whole time.

“It can’t be yours, Józef, it doesn’t look anything like you. When it laughs it’s got the same beady little eyes as Heniek Skobel.”

Zośka never so much as said to the old man, have you no conscience? At the most she’d run into the pantry or out into the orchard to cry, and Józef would follow and comfort her. What was he supposed to do – beat his own father?

It was only when death came for the old man and Zośka looked after him like he was her father, one time when she was straightening his pillows he took her by the hand and said:

“I’ve been a bad man, Zosia. And you’ve been a saint. I don’t need God’s forgiveness, I need yours.”

After he died Zośka washed his body like it was her own father’s. And she cried at his funeral like he’d been her dad.

I sometimes go over to their place to watch television and they sit there like two turtledoves, though they’re gray now. Zosieńka, Józeńko, they call each other. They’d do anything for each other. They have grandchildren now. No, you just sit and rest, I’ll do it, Zośka. You’ve done enough work today. I won’t come to any harm. That’s as may be. You’ve done just as much work as I have, Józef. Here, have some sour milk. And even at harvesttime, when people are sweating from the work and cursing left, right, and center, they’re all, Zosieńka, Józeńko. Like they were singing along with life. Recently they even had a church wedding, because the priest had been pestering them about it, he wouldn’t leave them in peace, he said what harm would it do if God joined in their happiness. He wouldn’t get in their way.

Three years I spent giving weddings, then they transferred me to the quotas department where there was a huge lot of work, because it wasn’t just grain but livestock as well, and milk, and there was all kinds of writing to be done, more every year. At the registry office, every now and then someone would come along to get married and that was it. Of course, once in a while they’d give me some other work so I wouldn’t get bored. Correct something or write out a fair copy, or do some calculations. Or one time we got some books and the librarian had just gone on leave to have a baby, so the district secretary put me to work cataloging the books, putting plastic covers on them, sticking on the numbers and stamping them with the district administration stamp, then putting them on the shelves. Another time there was no one to supervise the workers mending the road to the mill. When the autumn rains came or a thaw in the spring you couldn’t get through even with a pair of horses because the mud came up higher than the wheel hubs. So who could do the job? As usual everyone was up to their ears in work,
while the “priest” was just sitting at his desk staring at the ceiling. Maybe you could go, Mr. Szymek. No one’s going to be getting married today. And though supervising workers supposedly wasn’t really work and you could go lie down in the shade of a bush, because the workers would get on with the job without anyone watching over them, the thing was that I’d gotten used to the office and being able to stare at the ceiling, and I didn’t at all feel like I wasn’t doing anything. You could have a nice little doze if the sun was hot through the window or if you’d been drinking the night before. Or someone would come by and you’d have a chat. Or you’d go and visit the other offices, or go flirt with the girls.

There were more girls in those offices than bees in a hive. A good few of them had only come to work at the administration so they could find themselves a husband quicker, and an office worker to boot. If I’d wanted I could have even gotten married, and more than once. But why would I, when I could have the same thing without getting married. In those days girls still used to like nylon stockings, and for a pair of stockings any of them was putty in your hands. You’d pull a pair out and show them and say, listen, Agnisia, Józia, Rózia, would you like these to be yours? So meet me this evening at such and such a time. Because there was something about those nylon stockings that the moment a girl set eyes on them she’d get this glassy look, her voice would soften, and she’d very near reach for your pants then and there. It was another thing that when one of them had crooked legs her legs seemed to straighten out when she was wearing stockings. They made fat legs look thin, and skinny ones look just right. When they were wearing those stockings even what their faces looked like wasn’t such a big deal, their legs became the most important thing. And when one of the girls appeared in church wearing stockings, the whole congregation would look down instead of looking up. Mass would be ruined for all the other women, and a good few of the men only half paid attention to God.

I bought the stockings from this trader woman that would sometimes
come to the village selling various things. I’d known her from when I was in the police, and one time I’d had her at the station because she was suspected of selling yeast to moonshiners. I searched her belongings and she happened to have one pair of nylon stockings that she was delivering to someone.

“Bring some more for me, I’ll buy them off you. Maybe even a few pairs,” I said. And since then she did.