The Graveyard (5 page)

The man looked at him coldly. “I never said anything to
you,” he said. “Do you hear me? I didn’t speak to you. It’s you who have been bothering me.”

“I? I bothered you?” Franciszek choked.

The man turned to the others. “Have I said anything to this gentleman?” he asked very loudly and calmly.

There was a moment’s silence, then the bald-headed giant said softly to Franciszek, “The gentleman said nothing.”

“What do you mean?” Franciszek was indignant. He was trembling, and beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. “Didn’t he drivel about denunciations, and so on?”

“You’re raving,” said the bald man, and gave Franciszek a light push on the chest. “Everything’s got mixed up in your head, my friend. I myself heard you say you’d like to make a dash for the West, that you’d be better off there. Do you remember that or don’t you? Everybody here heard you say it!”

“Who did?” Franciszek cried. He turned violently to the others. “Who heard me say that?”

For a moment there was complete silence. Franciszek breathed heavily. He felt the sweat streaming down his body, causing an intolerable itch.

“All of us,” the cell replied.

The bald man added: “And don’t you try to bother anyone. You were very drunk, and you don’t remember what you said last night. If I were to repeat it, you’d be in serious trouble. If you know what’s good for you, keep quiet.”

Franciszek stepped back. Hatred cast a mist over his eyes; he crouched, ready to spring at the bald giant, but at that moment the door creaked again, and Franciszek automatically turned his head.

“Kowalski,” the lieutenant said. “Come along.”

He was led down the corridor, to the room where he had
been taken the previous night. Now, in daylight, it looked even grayer and uglier than before, when it was lighted by a bright, unshaded bulb hanging in the middle of the ceiling. At the desk the corporal’s seat was occupied by the round-faced man in plain clothes. Next to him was the sergeant who had escorted him to the police station. He looked very tired; his young face was pale, and he had rings under his eyes. The three of them—the lieutenant, the man in plain clothes, and the sergeant—were unshaven; during the night the sergeant’s round cheeks had grown as downy as ripe peaches, and neither his uniform nor his heavy gun added to his dignity.

The man in civilian clothes raised his eyes from the papers spread on the desk. “Well, Kowalski, here you are.” His voice expressed sincere worry. “It looks bad for you.”

Franciszek was silent; frowning, he leaned against the railing, and looked at the man in plain clothes.

“Bad,” the other repeated. Then, shaking his head, “You’re really in hot water.”

“What the devil have I done?” Franciszek asked.

“What’s the matter, aren’t you satisfied?” the lieutenant asked. Pushing out his chin, he stared at Franciszek with the expression of a little boy getting ready to fight.

“I want to know what I have done,” Franciszek said.

“And I want you to tell me,” the lieutenant said, “whether you like it or not.”

“Yes,” the sergeant threw in, “tell us: Don’t you like it? What? Do you like it or don’t you?”

“A party member,” said the man in plain clothes, spreading his hands. “A former partisan, an officer, and—well? Just to look at you, Kowalski, one would say you’re decent, quiet, probably a good comrade. But when we probe deeper, we find an enemy. You’ve unmasked yourself, Kowalski …” He
gave the pile of papers a push. “That’s the way it looks,” he said. “You’ve unmasked yourself, and that’s that.”

“Me?” Franciszek stammered. “Unmasked myself? What
is
this all about?”

“Maybe you don’t like it here,” the sergeant said. “Tell us: Don’t you like the regime? Or maybe the police?”

The man in plain clothes rose from his seat. His legs wide apart, he looked straight into Franciszek’s eyes. “You have insulted the party,” he said calmly. “You have insulted the uniform of the People’s police. You have insulted the People’s Poland. You abused the party and the People’s government in such language that I’m ashamed to repeat it. All this was taken down verbatim. Do you remember that? You, a party member, as your papers show, you have insulted our government, our People’s regime. By this token you have shown what you really are,
Mister
Kowalski. Be good enough to read this, and sign it,
Mister
Kowalski. Then you’ll pay the fine and you’ll go home. We’ll inform the secretary of the party organization. We’ll send him a copy of the record. And now—please.” He handed Franciszek a sheet of paper and a pen.

“My God,” Franciszek stammered, “is it possible?” His knees were trembling, and his heart was pounding somewhere in his throat.

“Pretend that it is,” the lieutenant said. He cast a glance at Franciszek, who was as pale as a sheet, and grinned crookedly. “Stop play-acting,” he said sharply. “You think one thing and you say another. We’re not here to be taken in by such tricks. One day you shout obscenities in the streets; the next day you’ll be a spy. Read this, please, and sign.”

“But I couldn’t possibly have shouted like that!” Franciszek cried. “There’s some mistake. I refuse to believe that I said such things.”

“I heard you,” the sergeant said. “And if you don’t like it, just say so.”

“I don’t think that way.”

“You shouted that way,” said the man in plain clothes. “These are your words. I am ashamed to repeat them, party comrade.”

“What a sober man thinks in his heart a drunk says with his tongue,” the lieutenant said. “Surely no one knows that better than you.”

“A mistake,” Franciszek said hoarsely. He raised his hand to his forehead as though he were going blind. “A mistake.”

“That’s right,” said the man in plain clothes. “You made a mistake. You made a mistake if you thought the enemy can never be unmasked.”

Franciszek glanced at the paper he had been handed. He tried to read it, but the letters blurred before his eyes into a single formless mass. Suddenly he had the feeling that everything around him was unreal, make-believe. He closed his eyes; on opening them after a moment, he saw the lieutenant bending over him. A little farther off stood the man in plain clothes, and next to him, the sergeant. Their faces showed nothing but contempt.

“Here,” the lieutenant said, pointing to the place where he had to sign.

“I—” Franciszek began. He stopped suddenly. He realized that he was at the end of his rope, and that he would not be able to say a word to justify himself before these men. In the corridor someone was banging his fists on the door, roaring, “Let me out! Let me out!” Franciszek thought: “I’ve got to get out of here, get out at any cost.” He picked up the pen, and signed. The lieutenant took the paper from his hands and threw it on the desk.

Later, as they returned his things, he could see the policemen talking to him, but their words were no more distinct than the buzzing of a fly. A void opened within him, and he could not find a single thought to fill it with; he put on his necktie, laced his shoes, and buckled his belt, moving like a sleepwalker. Not until the lieutenant had opened the door did he hear the man in plain clothes say to him, “So long,
Mister
Kowalski.”

And he found himself in the street.

THE ICY WIND BLOWING FROM THE VISTULA
revived him a little; the day was misty and cold, and the pale sun glistening feebly on the damp roofs carried not a hint of spring; no one would have suspected that the sap was already gathering under the bare branches of the trees. He walked fast, straight ahead, his crumpled overcoat unbuttoned; he had no idea where he was going; he was filled with only one desire—to get as far away as possible from the scene of his nocturnal ordeal. “The whole thing is a stupid accident,” he muttered to himself. “It’s perfectly insane. Everything will be cleared up soon; damn it all, it must be cleared up! I’ll settle the matter right away; I’ll go to see whatever person I have to …” He caught the amused glances of the passers-by, and realized that he had been talking to himself; he buttoned his overcoat and slowed his pace.

In the window of a little shop he saw a sign,
TELEPHONE
. He pushed the door open and entered; the shop bell above the door tinkled shrilly. Out of the darkness came the smell of stale vegetables. A young girl was standing at the telephone; Franciszek moved aside.

“What can I do for you,” asked the proprietor, unshaven, in a dirty smock.

Franciszek pointed to the girl: “I want to use the phone …”

The proprietor gave a grunt of disappointment, and buried his dark face in the newspaper. “We Are Advancing
Toward …” a headline screamed. After a moment he turned the page. “Yesterday’s speech caused wide repercussions …” The girl was chirping into the receiver, her lips curving deliciously: “Dzidka? Impossible! Is that so?… It’s true, she always … I don’t want to say anything mean about her, but it’s only what you’d expect …”

The bell above the door tinkled. Franciszek shuddered as though touched by an electric current. A boy came in; his sharp eyes glinted under the visor of his cap. He put a jar on the counter. “Milk and half a pound of butter.”

“… Dzidka? With Romek? Yes, I always …”

“There’s no milk. I have potatoes.”

“… I’ve always said …”

“And the butter?”

“No butter. I’ll have Brussels sprouts this afternoon.”

“I’ll telephone, and the whole thing will be cleared up,” Franciszek thought. He looked resentfully at the girl’s little painted mouth. “I’ll telephone; I’ll go to the factory, and everything will be settled.”

“And lard?”

“No lard, but I have potatoes.”

“… I’ve always said to Stefan, ‘Look out, you can never tell what she might do’ …”

“When will you have butter?”

“How the devil do I know? I told you what there is. Now get out!”

The bell tinkled again, startling Franciszek; the boy walked out. He ran across the street, splashing through a puddle; his shoes were at least three sizes too big for him. “Fool,” thought Franciszek in irritation; “some day he’ll break his leg.” He glanced at his watch: he was already an hour late; he must telephone …

“… you know me, you know I never say bad things about my girl friends; but in this case … What? It isn’t Dzidka? I know it isn’t Dzidka, of course not. But to get back to Wladka …”

He put his hand on her shoulder; she turned around. “Three minutes,” he snapped. “Enough.”

“Can’t you be polite?”

“Can’t you grow up?”

She flung some coins on the counter, and, looking at him with rage, walked out, slamming the door; once again the bell tinkled at the very center of his tired brain. The worn dial swung in its arc like a pendulum. “The Be-Kind-to-Animals Veterinary Home,” said a voice in the receiver. “Sorry, wrong number,” he muttered. In the end he managed to dial the right number; there was a continuous ringing—the busy signal. He hung up and leaned helplessly against the wall.

“She was a fresh little piece,” the proprietor said. “Nowadays the eggs are smarter than the hens. You speak to her politely, and she opens a mouth that—oh, well.” He waved his hand. “I was brought up differently. Once …”

Franciszek again dialed his number. When he heard the familiar voice of the switchboard operator, he breathed with relief.

“This is Kowalski. Connect me with the party office, please.”

Once again he heard the busy signal—this time it was a series of short rings.

“It’s busy.”

“I’ll wait.”

He pulled a chair over to him with his foot, and sat down. The proprietor put down his newspaper. “Yes, sir, I had to kiss my father’s hands,” he said. “The old man would say to
me, ‘Janek’—my name is Jan—’you must obey your father, so your children will obey you later …’ ”

“Here’s your party,” the operator snapped. An instant later he heard a familiar voice: “Secretariat.”

“This is Kowalski,” Franciszek cried joyfully. “Is it you, Pawlak?”

“Yes. What’s on your mind?”

“Listen, I’ve had a little trouble. I was detained.”

“At the briefing?”

“No. In a police station.”

“In connection with our city-to-village campaign?”

“No, just detained.”

“Oh, I see—the deratization campaign.”

“No, no—a supposed case of intoxication.”

“But our delegate for the anti-drunkenness campaign is Cebulak. You are the city-to-village delegate.”

“Listen to me; it had nothing to do with any campaign …” He leered at the proprietor, who kept staring at him with red-ringed eyes. “I—I—” he stammered. “It was personal …”

The voice in the receiver rose a tone higher. “You can act on your own, Comrade Kowalski, after the campaign. You’re the city-to-village campaign delegate, and that’s that. This must not happen again.”

“All right,” said Franciszek. “I’ll come right over and explain. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye.”

Franciszek was hot; he felt himself suddenly drenched with sweat from his shirt down to his socks. He counted out the coins for the call. “A bottle of orangeade,” he said.

The proprietor smiled with good-natured irony, as though to say, “Brother, who do you think you’re kidding?”

“I haven’t got any,” he said. “There may be some kvass—”

“All right, make it kvass.”

“I was saying there may be some kvass this afternoon. I have a bit of milk for my own personal use; I can let you have some.”

“That’s even better.”

The proprietor tittered.

“What are you laughing about?”

“Here’s your milk. I always try to understand everybody.” And while Franciszek drank, the proprietor went on: “Don’t take what happened to you too hard. They locked you up, and they let you go. I was locked up in 1945. I was in with a Russian major, a deserter, who had escaped dressed like a chimney sweep. ‘Don’t you ever get upset by anything, Vania,’ he said to me—for my name is Jan—‘don’t be upset. Whatever they ask you, say you don’t know. As for me, Vania’—my name is Jan—‘this is the twenty-third time I’ve been locked up …’ ”

Franciszek put down his glass. “What do I owe you?”

“Wait a minute, I’ll finish my story. ‘You see, Vania,’ he said, ‘that’s how many times I’ve been in jail.’ ”