Stone Upon Stone (40 page)

The next day they came and sprayed my whole shed with something smelly. I had to take my cows and calf and horse and put them in the barn. Because when you went in there it made your eyes water. Even any of the chickens that got close to the cattle shed, their eyes watered too. And the
dog, I thought he’d go mad. He sneezed and gagged, he foamed at the mouth and he clung to my feet so much I couldn’t get rid of him. Have a bark and you’ll get over it, I said, go on, bark like you were barking at a thief.

I even had a railroad rail ready to use for the ceiling, all I needed to do was go grease the right palm and drive up in my wagon. Because obviously you don’t buy rails like that in the ordinary way, you need a special opportunity. And opportunities don’t stand there waiting for you, you have to go after them yourself. I needed three lengths of about ten feet each. I went all over the place asking around, with no luck at all. Then one day I’m walking along the tracks and I see they’re switching out the old rails for new. I started talking with the workers, were those old rails so used up they weren’t any good anymore, or were they changing the railroad? No they weren’t, but there was going to be an express train on this route. What’s going to happen to the old rails? They’ll be sent for scrap. Well, I’d buy one of those, I could use it for the roof in the tomb I’m having built. It could be cut into three pieces and there’d still be some left over. They didn’t know about that, I should go talk to the stationmaster. I go to the stationmaster, I know him well, of course, and I say:

“Listen, Władysław, sell me one of those rails they’re changing out, I need it for the tomb I’m having built. I hear the express train’s coming through here. It can be the most worn-down one.”

He can’t do it. Why not, it’s only going for scrap, the workers told me, and I’ll pay however much I have to. He can’t because it’s government property, and government property isn’t for sale. If it was his he’d give me it for free. But everything on the railroad is government owned. Even the red cap he’s wearing isn’t his, it belongs to the government.

“So what can I do? The ceiling won’t hold without rails. What do you suggest, Władysław?”

“Hang on, just wait till this freight train’s gone through. For a tomb, you say?”

“That’s right. I’ve had the walls up a long time now, it’s all partitioned off, there’s only the roof left to do.”

He took off that red cap of his and scratched behind his ear.

“Well everyone has to die sooner or later, that’s a fact. And they have to be buried somewhere. Go talk to one of the switchmen, slip him something and he’ll turn a blind eye, then you can bring your wagon in the night and take it away. Just remember, I wasn’t the one that told you.”

That’s how it was with almost everything. Nothing would come easily. I had to have a pit dug so Chmiel could get in to do the building, ten feet by ten and five deep, and I lost a good few months on that. Time was I wouldn’t have asked anyone, I’d just have dug it myself. But how could I do that with these legs of mine, and the walking sticks, and me just back from the hospital. I needed to hire someone for the job. So I got that swindler the Postman, because it’s not so easy to hire a decent worker. His name’s Kurtyka, but they call him the Postman. He lives with his sister, she’s an old maid, they have three acres. The sister works the land while he gads about the village from morning till night, making some money here, stealing there, or someone’ll buy him a drink. He’s always drunk. And even when he’s not, he pretends to be. He’s so good at it that if you don’t know him you can’t tell he’s not really drunk. But evidently he prefers living like that to being sober. Or maybe he’s forgotten how to not be drunk. We’ve all gotten used to him always being drunk, he wouldn’t be the same person if he tried to be sober. Because what is he, some Jasiek with three acres that he shares with his sister. As it is the other farmers laugh at him, the women feel sorry for him, the children chase after him down the street and shout at him: Postman! Postman! Postman!

I met him early one morning by the shrine. I was heading out to the fields to dig potatoes. He was standing there with his hands in his pockets. He was squinting in the sunlight like he was already drunk, or to fool someone into buying him a drink.

“Whoa.” I stopped the horse. “Listen, Jasiek, maybe you could dig a pit for me for my tomb?”

He looked up and eyed me, smelling a half-bottle.

“What, are you planning to die?”

“One of these days I’ll have to.”

“They’ll dig you a hole when you go, why worry about it ahead of time.”

“I’m planning to build a walled tomb, the kind of thing you need to get done in advance.”

“Do you think you’re not going to rot in a walled tomb? You’ll rot in there just the same.”

“So will you do it?”

“I can dig you a pit, for a tomb, for potatoes, for slaking lime. Makes no difference to me, a pit’s a pit. Just buy me a half-bottle.”

“I’ll buy you a half-bottle and pay you as well.”

“But buy it now. A man’s at his thirstiest in the early morning.”

I gave him money for a bottle and we agreed that the next day we’d go to the cemetery and I’d show him where to dig. But the next day came, then the day after that, and three more days, and there was sight nor sound of him. I went down the village to look for him. I called in to see his sister. Is Jasiek in? He was here this morning but he went out. He might be at the pub. I went to the pub. Yeah, he was here, but he only had the one beer, no one would buy him a drink, so he left. He said he was supposed to go pick apples at Boduła’s place, maybe look for him there. I hobbled over to Boduła’s. Yeah, he was picking apples here, but that was last week, he barely picked any at all, no more than a basketful, and then he hits you up for a half-bottle.

In the end I saw him, he was walking up the road toward me, but the second he spotted me he started reeling like he was half gone.

“You were supposed to come the next day, god damn you! And don’t even try to act drunk in front of me.”

“There’s no need to shout, I’ll be there. There’s always a next day.” And he leers at me with his supposedly drunken eye.

“Don’t make me take this cane to you! Get a spade and come with me!”

He didn’t even try to resist, and he stopped staggering. I got him a spade and we went to the cemetery. I showed him the place, I marked off from where to where, and I told him how deep it needed to be.

“Is that all? I thought you wanted something three times bigger. It’ll be dug by sundown. Just have that half-bottle waiting, and a couple of pickles.”

While I was still there he took off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, then as I was leaving he even spat on his hands.

“Come by when you’re done,” I said.

I bought a full bottle instead of a half and I was planning on giving him the whole thing, because I thought he might come in handy again. I didn’t have any pickles so I went over to Mrs. Waliszka’s and she gave me almost a whole canful. But of course he never showed up that evening or any of the next days. It wasn’t till a week later he came by, in the early morning. I could see he wasn’t himself, or he was still sleepy or something.

“So did you dig the pit?”

“Sort of.”

“What do you mean, sort of?”

“Well, it’s not completely finished.”

“Weren’t you supposed to keep digging till the evening?”

“I would have, but I hit some roots. Must have been from that elm by Kosiorek’s tomb. One of the damn things was thick as my leg. And the smaller ones, there were so many of them you couldn’t even count them. I needed an ax. I was going to get my own, but I can’t find it. You wouldn’t have anything to drink, would you?”

I thought to myself, Kosiorek’s tomb is over thirty yards from mine, and where is there an elm there? The elm’s way over in the corner of the cemetery. Could its roots reach all the way across? He’s pulling the wool over
my eyes, the son of a bitch. But if I don’t give him a drink he won’t finish the job.

“Here, have one drink.” I poured him out a quarter cupful. “Come back this evening after you’ve finished the job, you’ll get the rest.”

His face lit up like a little sun.

“The job’ll get done. I’m telling you, there’s no one in the village I respect like I respect you. Your health.” He drank the vodka, made a face and shuddered.

“Off you go then,” I said.

“What’s your hurry? My word is my word. Let me have one more. After the work I don’t need to drink. To tell the truth, after work I don’t even like to. After work all you want to do is sleep.”

I poured out another drink. He drank it. I poured another one. He didn’t leave till he’d seen the bottom of the bottle.

“Right, now I’m gonna go dig your pit. Just hand me that ax.”

And again he didn’t show up for several days. I was all set to go looking for him. I thought to myself, I’ll rip his arms off, the shit, because I had a feeling that once again he’d not finished the job, otherwise he’d have come for his money, and of course his booze. Then one day Michał and I are eating breakfast and he walks in.

“How long are you gonna string me along, damn you! Are you done or not?”

“Almost.”

“What do you mean, almost?!”

“I just have one more spade length to go. I thought it would go quick as anything. The topsoil’s fine, but lower down it’s clay. I could’ve dug three pits in ordinary soil in the time it’s taken to dig this one. You chose a bad place. It’ll be damp there in the clay. Give me at least enough for a beer. I’m cruel tired.”

“Where did you get so tired?”

“Where do you think? Working on your tomb.”

I knew he was cheating me, but here you go, that’s for a beer, just don’t show your face again till the job’s done. And so he didn’t. Almost a full month passed. I thought to myself, I ought to at least go over to the cemetery and see how much he has left to go, maybe I could even finish it myself. I go over there, and my tomb hasn’t even been started. Not even a single spade length. There’s just the outline. I was furious. You lying bastard, you this, you that, I cursed him up and down and swore I’d get even with him. There I was giving you a half-bottle, giving you money for another, and for beer, and on top of everything you had the gall to make up stories about roots and clay!

For a whole week I went looking for him around the village, but it was like he’d moved away for good. Sometimes someone had seen him, but word must have gotten out that I was on the warpath and I was threatening to knock his block off soon as I found him, so he might have been hiding and sleeping during the day then coming out at night like a damn bat. Or maybe it wasn’t me chasing him, but he was the one following me. There was a reason they called him the Postman. As for me, all that hobbling about on my walking sticks and my injured legs, to the pub, to the shrine and back, I’d soon had enough.

I needed to get started on doing the digging myself, because I could have spent another week looking for him and it would have been a waste of time. I never got my spade or my ax back either. I had to borrow a spade off Stach Sobieraj. Luckily I didn’t find any roots or clay.

I was digging virtually with my arms alone, helping myself a bit with my stomach, because whenever I tried to push on the spade with my foot I got a pain that felt like it was coming up from deep in the earth. Though I often had to use my foot, because my arms weren’t enough on their own, and my stomach was sore as anything from helping my arms. I was drenched in sweat, I saw darkness in front of my eyes, I could barely stand, but I had to keep on digging, because who else was going to do it, even half a spade
length was good. And I went on like that day after day, like I was struggling with a huge mountain I had to level to the ground as some kind of punishment.

Many days I didn’t even have the strength to walk back home. I’d go down to the road in front of the cemetery, sit by the roadside and wait to see if someone would be driving their wagon from the fields and could give me a ride part of the way. If no one came along I rested a bit, grabbed my walking sticks, put my spade on my back like a rifle, because I’d made a special cord for it like a rifle strap, and off I’d hobble. Some people even joked, they said, what’s this, are you coming home from the wars?

Sometimes I’d had enough of that tomb. The hell with it, I thought to myself, what have I done to deserve having to slave away like this, will someone finally tell me? Father and mother were long since in the ground, my brothers can get buried wherever they like. I’ll put Michał in an ordinary grave, in the earth, and me, when I die, at most the district administration will bury me. They owe me at least that much for all the years I worked there. I went on digging. I swore at the Postman, I cursed God, I cursed myself. And I kept on digging.

At times I regretted not having gone to my grave long ago, because I’d already dug a grave for myself one time, when the Germans took us into the woods to shoot us and ordered us to dig. I’d have been at peace now, I’d be nothing but dust and I wouldn’t have to dig a second time. I’d be lying there and I wouldn’t know a thing, I wouldn’t feel anything, think anything, I wouldn’t be worried about anything. And on the memorial it would say, Szymon Pietruszka, Aged 23, that’s how old I was back then. These days not many folks remember the war, but if you just go to that place you’ll see there’s a nice memorial, it’s clean and tidy and there’s fresh flowers in a jar, who knows who brings them but they’re always there, whether it’s harvesttime or no, mowing, potato digging, spring, summer, fall, whatever happens to be in bloom. Then on All Souls’ there’s also a wreath with ribbons and lit
candles, and always a few people standing at the memorial and crying. Who’s going to cry for you when you’re gone?

When they were building the memorial people even came to me from the Borowice district administration, because the bastards had taken us all the way out to the Borowice woods. Three of them there were, the head of the council, at that time he was called chairman, the district secretary, and another guy. They had briefcases and they were all dressed up in suits and ties, even though it was an ordinary weekday, a Tuesday. I’d just come in from mowing the meadow, I was fit to drop, hot, filthy, I was sitting on the bench in my undershirt and Antek’s old pants that came halfway up my shins and had holes in the knees. I’d taken my boots off and propped my feet on them. But when they asked, are you Szymon Pietruszka, I wasn’t going to deny who I was. Szymon Pietruszka. I was taken aback, because I mean, what could people from Borowice want with me? It’s a ways away. I didn’t even know any girls from over there. To begin with, all they said was they’re from the district administration in Borowice, and they started smiling in this dopey way. Have a seat, I said.