Stone Upon Stone (57 page)

When we’d break the earth for the first time with the plow in springtime, we’d lay a slice of bread on the first piece of ground to be plowed. It goes without saying it wasn’t just a regular slice like you cut to eat with a glass of milk or a pickled cucumber, or on its own, without anything. It had to have been cut from a new loaf on Christmas Eve.

Mother would already have set the table for the Christmas Eve dinner without meat. Father would light the lantern, take the ladder from the hallway, and go fetch a loaf from the barn, because we kept our bread on the roof beams in the barn. There was a fresh draft in there so it didn’t go moldy, and it was high up. It was hard to get to without a ladder. We tried sometimes, me and Michał, we’d attempt to shimmy up the post the middle of the beam rested on, but we never managed it, and the ladder always stood out in the hallway.

There was
żurek
soup with buckwheat, noodles and poppy seed, and pierogies stuffed with cabbage, but we waited for mother to cut the bread like that was the most special dish. And dinner would start with the bread. Mother would rest the loaf against her stomach, she’d make the sign of the cross over it with the knife, she’d first cut a big slice that was going to be for the earth in the spring, then just a regular slice for each of us, according to
our place in the family, first for grandfather, then grandmother while she was still alive, then father, us boys, and for herself last of all. Father would get the lantern again and put the first slice in the attic, he’d stick it way up high on a rafter beneath the thatch, usually in the darkest place. And there the slice of bread would wait for the spring like a sleeping pigeon.

And with each of us boys, the moment we were out of the cradle and could more or less keep on our feet, father would take us with him when the spring came and he went out to plow. He’d unwrap the bread from its white cloth and tell us to put it on the ground. Then he’d put our little hands on the handles of the plow, take hold with his own hands, and we’d plow over the bread. He did this with each of us in turn, Michał, me, Antek, and Stasiek. Right away he’d start teaching us how to plow. Don’t hold it like that, keep it tight, walk in the middle of the furrow, it needs to go deeper when the earth is dry, when your hands get bigger you’ll be holding the reins in this one and the whip in the other, as well as the plow. And don’t try to scare off the crows that are following behind you, let them be, because when you’re on your own out in the field with no one but the horse the crows’ll keep you company, and whatever they eat will grow again. And each time you turn, always let the horse have a little breather. Now what’s that singing in the sky?

“A lark, daddy.”

“That’s right, a lark. Do you know where the lark came from?”

“It flew here.”

“That’s true. But one day the Lord God was walking over the fields, and there was a farmer plowing. Is the work hard, God asked the farmer. I’ll say, Lord, answered the farmer. So God took a clod of earth and threw it up into the sky and said, let it sing for you, it’ll make the job easier.”

When we were a bit older we’d ask father what would happen if we didn’t put the slice of bread on the earth at first plowing. He’d frown and look at us like we’d been tempted by Satan or something, and he’d call on mother as a witness:

“You hear what ideas they’ve gotten into their heads, the little good-for-nothings? I ought to take a stick and knock those devilish thoughts out of them. Cross yourselves right now, or else!”

We’d be all scared and cross ourselves. Michał would often do it three times, but it didn’t calm father down and he’d take it out on mother:

“You’re their mother, why aren’t you saying anything!”

“They’re kids, they’re still allowed to ask about anything. You’re their father, you should explain it to them.”

“I never asked my father about anything. Nor did he ask his. You had to listen, not ask questions.” Angry that mother hadn’t taken his side, he’d turn to grandfather: “Did I ever ask you anything, father? Did you ever ask your father?”

But grandfather was really old by then, and often he’d be rubbing his feet, because they were always aching, and he didn’t quite get what father was after, whether he was supposed to nod or disagree with him, and he’d mostly give a vague answer:

“Well, when you didn’t know something, you’d ask. But back then children were different, they’re not the same these days.”

“What do you mean, not the same!” said father, turning on grandfather now. “Didn’t people plow and plant and harvest on the same land? You don’t know what you’re saying. Old age is starting to get to you, I can see.”

Because grandfather was the one father got mad at most often of all. For the slightest thing, sometimes without any reason at all. If the rain set in he’d complain that grandfather’s feet kept hurting and they wouldn’t stop. One time the wind blew down a poplar and it fell on the barn, and he went after grandfather about that too, he said why hadn’t he planted an ash or an elm, no, he had to go and plant a poplar, and poplars aren’t good trees at all, they’re crap, you can’t build anything with the wood, and you can’t burn it because it burns like straw. Or another time he stepped on a chick, because the chicks had gotten out of the basket where the brood hen was and they
were pattering around the room, that was grandfather’s fault too because grandfather was sitting on the bench instead of by the stove where he always sat, and father had had to go around him. It was probably all because of those papers that grandfather had buried somewhere and couldn’t remember where. Or maybe because grandfather never got upset when anyone got angry at him. You could be as mad as you liked at grandfather, he’d just look at your anger like he was staring into space or he couldn’t hear anything. So us boys would get mad at him sometimes too, because we knew he’d never grab a stick and come after us, or tell on us to mother or father, or hold it against us. Sometimes he’d even take a pear or a greengage out of his pocket and he’d say, here, Szymuś, here, Michał, they’re sweet as sweet can be, have one and don’t be so angry.

Though just as father could suddenly get angry, the anger would pass equally as quickly. He’d reach for his tobacco pouch, roll himself a cigarette, and start to tell us what would happen if we didn’t give that slice of bread to the land:

“There’d be misfortunes.” And he’d start explaining what the misfortunes would be, starting with the land getting covered with weeds, then there was rains, hail, heat waves, drought, mice, vermin, and other plagues, all the way up to the most terrible possibility, that the land might stop producing anything at all, because it would have turned to stone. Then grandfather would add his own misfortunes to the ones that father said. Because grandfather knew even more than father about misfortunes that can happen to you. And not just because he’d lived longer. He’d worked on the squire’s land and he’d served in the tsar’s army, and one time everything he owned had been swept away in a flood, another time it had all been burned by lightning. So earth, water, sky, war, it was all the same to grandfather. But father didn’t like grandfather topping him when it came to misfortunes. Grandfather would barely get out the words:

“Back in the day –”

When father would immediately jump in with:

“Never mind back in the day. Misfortunes back in the day aren’t the same. You were working the squire’s land, so they were the squire’s misfortunes. It was the same in the army, the bread was rations, whether there was any or no the soldiers had to have some because otherwise they wouldn’t fight. Here the land is ours. If you treat it badly it won’t forgive you. There can be misfortunes like in the Holy Bible, or in the Queen of Sheba. The prophecies weren’t for nothing.”

Mother sometimes had to step in and protect us from all those misfortunes:

“Stop frightening them. They’re just children. When they grow up they’ll have their own misfortunes, what do they need yours for. All you’ll do is keep them awake at night.”

Sometimes Stasiek would wake up in his cradle and scream the place down like he’d been dreaming one of father’s misfortunes. It didn’t help to rock him, he’d just cry even louder. The only thing that worked was for mother to stop up his mouth with her breast.

At that time I didn’t know a whole lot about bread except that sometimes we had it and sometimes we didn’t, and that when we had it it was good, and when we didn’t it got even better. While we still had it we knew that when we finished one loaf father would go to the barn and bring another. And mother would ask while she was cutting it, how much shall I cut you? Because sometimes your eyes are bigger than your stomach and you end up throwing it to the dog.

But it also happened that spring would be a long way away and father would bring the last loaf and he’d say, this is the last one. Then we wouldn’t see bread for weeks on end. Not till Easter, because mother would always leave enough flour for one or two loaves at Easter, you couldn’t have Lord Jesus rising from the dead and us without bread. Then there’d be one or two loaves for the harvest, to keep the mowers’ strength up. The whole time in
between you’d be living by the old taste of the bread. You’d dream about bread when you were asleep and when you were daydreaming. You’d miss it like it was someone close to you. Worst of all was in the evening, because in the evening it’d appear to you like a ghost. All of a sudden there’d be the smell of bread, like someone had walked past the window with a big loaf under their arm, or the neighbors had just taken bread out of the oven. You couldn’t stop yourself saying:

“There’s a smell of bread from somewhere.”

But father was always keeping an eye on our thoughts to make sure we were thinking about anything but bread, and he’d disagree right away:

“What are you talking about? The Maszczyks are probably just burning straw, they must be out of firewood. Or maybe Dereń was mucking out this morning, manure sometimes gives a smell like bread. Especially horse manure.” He’d sniff and make like he couldn’t smell anything himself. He’d even go over, open the door and let the air in, and he’d say he couldn’t smell a thing. To prove his point he’d sometimes ask grandfather:

“Can you smell anything, father?”

And grandfather wouldn’t smell anything either and he’d nod to say he couldn’t smell anything.

“There must be a thaw on the way. I’ve had ants crawling up my legs all morning, the little buggers. Biting ones. The weather must be about to change. Did you see there’s a wind blowing up? The wind often brings new weather. If anyone was baking bread it could only have been the Wronas, and they’re east of us, but when the wind blows for a change of weather it’s always from the west. One time the Turks were eating bread in their trenches, and we could smell it so plain in ours it made our bellies hurt from hunger. You can smell bread from miles away.”

Mother was the only one that believed I must have smelled bread, because otherwise I wouldn’t have said anything, and she started sending me to bed right away:

“It’s bedtime, you need to go to bed and get to sleep. Don’t think about bread, son.”

Because her too, when she was clearing the table, she’d often cup her hand and make as if she was gathering bread crumbs, she’d even cross over to the range and toss the crumbs into the firebox.

One time, despite myself I blurted out:

“Mama, there isn’t any bread!”

Father was sitting at the table staring out the window, he came down on me like a ton of bricks:

“What are you shouting about, you little nuisance? Let her throw it on the fire! If she’s swept it up let her throw it in! Crumbs always have to be thrown into the fire! It’s a sin to do otherwise!” He was so mad he actually stood up and walked back and forth across the room, then in the end he went outside.

I don’t know what could have ruffled his feathers like that, I hadn’t said it so loud. But maybe it was just the fact that it was bread? Because after the bread ran out, everyone would avoid talking about bread as well. No one actually said not to talk about it, but still it was as if we’d forgotten the word “bread.” Even grandfather, he’d be talking about what they ate in the different wars he’d been in, he’d mention beans and cabbage, kasha, noodles, sometimes meat, but he never mentioned bread. It was the same with us kids, when we were kneeling by our bed saying our prayers out loud, and mother was standing over us making sure we didn’t miss out any words, when it came time to say, our daily bread, we’d drop our voices and mother would let it go. Though there was even something about our prayers that bothered father, he’d say to mother:

“They ought to say a Hail Mary instead. Our Lady’s more likely to grant children’s wishes. She had a child of her own.”

Father seemed to be just sitting there and thinking, he rarely said anything, but he didn’t trust a soul. He must have known that at a time like that
the slice of bread wedged up there on the rafter was like the apple in the Garden of Eden, it could have tempted anybody. Most of all he didn’t trust me. Whenever he watched us all, his gray eyes drilled into me more than any of us. But he didn’t even trust grandfather. Though grandfather didn’t have a single tooth in his head, how could he have been tempted by bread that had been there since Christmas Eve and had dried as hard as stone. Even when he had fresh bread he’d only pick out the inside, and he’d have to chew every mouthful forever before he swallowed it.