The Graveyard (12 page)

“Good night, Elzbieta,” he said.

HE WAS ABOUT TO LEAVE THE FACTORY: THE SIRENS
were wailing. He punched his timecard and was walking toward the gate, when the porter stopped him. “I have a little note for you,” he said in a strangely official tone, without his usual wink. He took out his receipt book, and slowly moved his trembling finger over the page, looking for the place. “Oh, here it is,” he said finally. “Please, sign here.”

Franciszek signed and walked out. In the street he stopped to read the note. The Personnel Department was notifying him that his employment would be terminated in three months; during that time he would have to look for another job and another apartment.

“Hey, Citizen!” someone cried behind him.

He turned around. Jarzebowski was running toward him, his overcoat unbuttoned, his hair flying in the wind.

“Well?” he shouted from a distance. “Well, how about it?”

“What do you mean?”

“You don’t know? Our glee club. You’re gifted, you know; there’s no doubt that you have a real talent …”

Franciszek smiled and walked away. He stared at the crumbling wet sidewalks, thinking: “Aren’t they right? They don’t trust me and they don’t want me—it’s simple.” At this moment he was proud of his party, of the men who had expelled him; he was proud of their logic, inflexibility, purity; he was proud of his son, Mikołaj. And he thought happily
that had he been in their place he would have acted as they did. Stand up and fight, return to them pure, and deserving to be trusted—that was what he had to do.

The sidewalk ended suddenly at a long red wall; he was walking across an empty square, full of mud. Somewhere at the end of it a group of people had gathered, murmuring joyfully; he could also hear the barking of a dog—undoubtedly a very big dog. He walked up to them without thinking, and elbowed his way through the ring of bystanders. The object of their curiosity was a man in a fencing mask and gauntlets, who was pulling a beautiful dog by a chain, addressing it with horrible curses. It was obvious that the beautiful dog was quite unimpressed by the curses. Franciszek thought at first that the strangely dressed man was some sort of trainer, and was about to turn away, when the man suddenly removed his mask with a tired gesture, and Franciszek saw before him the frantic eyes of Comrade Nowak.

“Nowak,” he cried in surprise. “What the devil are you doing here?”

Nowak wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Ah, it’s you,” he said in a wooden voice. “Have you got a cigarette? I’m exhausted …”

“What are you doing with that dog?”

“The dog?” asked Nowak, staring vacantly. He had a bitter smile. “True, for you it may be only a dog, but for me …” He suddenly raised his fists to the sky, and howled: “For me it’s worse than a hyena, worse than leprosy.” He jerked the chain, but the dog did not even budge. “Red, you damn’ beast,” Nowak cried, “stand up! Stand up, I say!”

The crowd around them laughed happily. The beautiful dog sat motionless, staring haughtily out of its bronze-colored eyes.

“Red,” Nowak whispered. He lurched as he raised his right hand in a dramatic gesture. “Red, I implore you … Red, my precious, stand up, please …”

“For God’s sake,” said Franciszek angrily, “what do you want of this dog?”

“What do you mean?” Nowak asked. “You yourselves ordered me to change his name!” He moved closer to Franciszek. “He used to be called Sambo, and everything was fine,” he whispered passionately. “A real jewel, not a dog: he brought me the newspaper in his mouth; he loved the children; he walked my little girl home from school; he looked after a blind old man from across the street; and so on … But ever since the party secretary ordered me to call him Red—you remember, don’t you?—his character has changed. He attacks everybody; he snaps; my wife is leaving me; she can’t get along with him. She’s already seen a lawyer …” He sighed. “All because of the dog. Of course, this won’t be mentioned in court; we mustn’t compromise the party …” He gritted his teeth. “We’ve decided she will say I didn’t satisfy her sexually, and that she believes in free love. Of course, we’ll keep seeing each other somehow. But we can’t do it any other way without compromising the party; we can’t. There’s no other way, really there isn’t. I’ve thought it over very carefully.”

“But can’t you get rid of the dog?”

“Get rid of him?” Nowak repeated, suddenly amused, and looked at Franciszek as if he were a kind of imbecile. “Get rid of him? I tried to drown him; I gave him a pound of rat poison a day; I turned on the radio full blast and left my family for three days; I took him a hundred miles from Warsaw, and he came back. But I can’t sell him with the name Sambo—that would be like giving arms to the enemy. No, I can’t get rid of him: the Michurin-Pavlov Society would get after me
in a second— What have you done with your dog? Why do you mistreat animals? Don’t you realize what a dog can do for a man, particularly for a party comrade?…” He resolutely put on his mask. “Excuse me,” he said, “but I’ve got to get to work. This is my party assignment; for this purpose I was released from participation in the city-to-village campaign.” He jerked the chain desperately. “Come on, Red,” he cried. “Stand up!”

The dog pricked up one ear, then lay down on its belly, stretching out its two aristocratic forelegs: he looked like a fur rug. Jerks, curses, caresses, promises—nothing helped. Nowak toiled and sweated, the crowd roared happily, and amid this commotion only the dog remained noble and calm.

“What’s going on here?” a brisk voice cried suddenly. A young policeman forced his way through the crowd. “What’s this?” He turned to the nearest spectator and looked him sternly in the eyes. “Is there something you don’t like? Now tell the truth: you don’t like the regime?”

“Mr. Authority,” said the other. “I’m leaving. I’ve already left. I’ve never been here.”

He tipped his hat, and vanished. Reluctantly the crowd began to disperse. Only Franciszek, Nowak, the policeman, and the dog, who was exquisitely licking his paw, remained on the square.

“What are you up to?” the policeman asked Nowak. “What’s the matter with you? Is it a joke or what? I see you don’t like it here. If so, better say so, right away.”

“I’m training a dog,” Nowak replied haughtily. He removed his mask and fanned his flushed face. “If you don’t believe me, there”—he pointed—“there’s my factory, and you can find out all about me. I’m training the dog on the secretary’s orders.”

They stared at each other.

“What are you teaching it?” the policeman asked.

“Attitude,” Nowak said dryly. “An attitude befitting a dog.”

Again they exchanged stares.

“If that’s the case,” the policeman said, “everything is in order.” He turned violently to Franciszek. “And what are you doing here, Citizen?” he asked sharply. “Maybe you …”

“I like it here,” Franciszek said. “Everything is just as it should be.” Nowak had gone away dragging his dog as a tow-man pulls his barge; Franciszek and the policeman looked at each other in silence. Suddenly Franciszek smiled. “Do you remember me?” he asked. “Surely you remember me.”

The policeman moved a step forward, and his face lit up. “Why of course,” he cried in a happy clear voice. “Of course I remember. I hooked you, didn’t I, for disturbing the peace …” He was as happy as a child who has just been given a beautiful toy, and patted Franciszek on the arm. “Yes, yes,” he repeated, his eyes sparkling, “It was you who disturbed the peace.”

“Well,” said Franciszek, smiling gloomily, “you might call it that.”

“Why?” said the policeman, and his face suddenly clouded. “Don’t you like the name?”

“Nonsense; I haven’t said anything of the kind.”

“And you’re very pleased about it, aren’t you?”

“What am I pleased about?”

“The fact that you haven’t said anything of the kind. Admit it.”

They were walking slowly across the deserted square. “Ah, my friend,” Franciszek said, “if you had gone through what I have, you’d realize that that isn’t enough: you like it, you don’t like it. I raised my hand against things which neither conscience nor reason can grasp, which are beyond human
understanding. I know, I know it perfectly; I told you then that there were no such things. I told you—it’s a fact, I know I told you—that everything described as beyond human understanding is at bottom an absurdity and a lie, and a crime as well, and that it is not beyond man, but against man. That’s what I said, yes. I said that every human action can be measured only by a man’s endurance and life, and by the amount of happiness it gives him—however little. Yes, that’s what I said. What of it? Like everybody else, I had my moments of doubt. My dear man: the more moments of doubt that can be mastered by reason, the stronger the faith.”

He turned to the policeman, but he was walking alone—there was no one beside him. Somewhere near a fence three old women stood gossiping, and the young policeman was running toward them, holding up his long coat. A moment later Franciszek could hear his resounding voice: “Do you like it or don’t you?” and the frightened chirping of the three old women.

He entered a telephone booth and dialed a number. After a while he heard the click of the receiver at the other end. “Excuse me,” he said; “may I speak to Jerzy?”

“Who is it?” a woman’s voice asked.

“My name is Kowalski.”

There was a moment’s silence.

“Jerzy isn’t in,” the woman said. “Didn’t you know?”

“No, I didn’t.”

Again the receiver was silent for a moment. Someone knocked sharply at the booth window.

“On vacation,” said the voice in the receiver. “You understand—on va-ca-tion. Surely he is entitled to a vacation, isn’t he?”

Franciszek wanted to say something, but the receiver
clicked at the other end. Again he was walking through the dark, empty city, which had been washed by rain for many weeks, and still refused to awaken to spring, the city with one neon sign over it:
YOUNG PEOPLE READ
THE BANNER OF YO  H
.” At home, he sat by the window in a cold draft; he looked at the blinking letters, and it seemed to him that over the noise and bustle of the city he could hear a sharp barking voice: “Do you like it or don’t you? Do you like it or don’t you? Do you like it or …”

Suddenly he turned around. “Why don’t you serve supper, Elzbieta?”

He heard her stand up heavily and move off to the kitchen. He followed her. “You’ve broken with Roman, haven’t you?”

She leaned on his arm and suddenly burst into tears.

“It will pass,” he said, stroking her cold, heavy hair. “Everything will pass, my child. Everything evil, stupid, inhuman. We must think that we are continually moving toward light; we must believe in it …” He fell silent, and stared at the darkness outside and the quivering neon letters, and once again—against his will—read them from beginning to end, mentally replacing the missing ones. Then he pushed Elzbieta away, and violently drew the curtain, so violently that some of its rings tore off.

HE STOPPED IN FRONT OF A TALL WHITE HOUSE
, and checked the address on a slip of paper. He walked in, and was starting to climb the broad staircase when someone called from behind, “Hey, Citizen!”

He turned around, his hand on the banister: a soldier with a tommy gun slung over his shoulder stood on the landing below.

“Who do you want to see?” he asked Franciszek.

“A friend.”

“What’s this?” the soldier said, and his young face was suddenly clouded. “Without a pass? Come back down, Citizen.” He held out his hand. “Your papers.”

He slowly made out a pass for him on a red form, wetting his pencil and murmuring solemnly the while; finally he gave Franciszek his identification with the pass, and said, “Third floor.” Then, as Franciszek was beginning to climb, he added in a chiding tone, “Next time, Citizen, don’t try to get in without a pass.”

He stopped at the third floor and rang the bell. The door opened for him, there were whispers, and finally he stood before the man he had come to see. “Do you recognize me, Birch?” Franciszek asked.

The man standing before him, with a sickly face and sunken, lusterless black eyes, scrutinized him carefully.
“Skinny,” he said at last, holding out his hand. “It’s Skinny, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Franciszek. “It’s me.”

They sat in armchairs. They looked at each other, trying to discover changes in one another’s faces and gestures; for a few moments an awkward silence prevailed. Then Franciszek, trying to hide his embarrassment, began to speak hurriedly: “You must excuse me for bothering you—I know people like you have no time even for their families, but my case …” He suddenly hesitated.

“Go on,” Birch said. “I’m listening.”

“Do you remember me as I was in the underground?”

“Yes, you, and the others too.”

“Will you help me?”

“Surely that goes without saying,” Birch said. “Talk.”

“I … I …” Franciszek said, trying to look the other straight in the eyes, “I raised my hand against the party. I don’t understand myself how it happened …” He turned scarlet. “You know, I was a bit tight, and I shouted that …”

He paused, suddenly overcome with a feeling that this talk was hopeless. “What did I shout?” he thought desperately, “What did I shout? After all, I said the truth, what I felt …” He went on: “I said that I didn’t believe that—that—”

“That what?”

“That it was possible to build anything valuable by means of crimes and lies, by destroying human dignity, by transforming Communist loyalty into slavery.”

“And what am I to do about it?”

“I want you—you, one of the men who have power and know the authorities—I want you to tell me: Where is the dividing line between loyalty and slavery, between crime and necessity? It was always reason that drew that line, reason
and conscience. And now—that’s what I said then—now man has become only a miserable plaything of politics. We try to forget reason if we know what’s good for us; and as for conscience, that miserable thing, it’s better to think it never existed.”

“Whom did you say all this to?”

“To whom? To whom? Does it matter? What matters is that I’m saying it to myself.”