Stone Upon Stone (46 page)

He managed to find a lamp and light it, and he looked around. His Wandzia was asleep in bed with someone else. They were sleeping so soundly that when he held the lamp right over them, neither of them so much as stirred. The quilt was kicked off and the two of them were naked as the day they were born. The man at least had enough modesty to be lying curled up on his side, he must have been cold, or it was because he wasn’t sleeping in his own bed. Sad Man recognized him as Felek, the head groomsman at his wedding. But her, she was lying belly up, her legs gaping wide, all crumpled and spattered, one breast one way and the other the other, the only thing
she had on was the red bead necklace he’d bought her at a church fair when they were courting.

On the table there were two bottles of moonshine, one completely empty, the other half finished, and slices of sausage and pickled cucumbers and bread that was cut like for an engagement party. They’d also made themselves scrambled eggs and they’d evidently both eaten from the same pan, because there were two spoons resting against it. And their clothes were scattered all around the room. Her skirt was all the way over by the stove, it might even have been that she made the scrambled eggs without her skirt on.

He made the sign of the cross over them, pulled out his pistol, and shot her and then him right where they lay asleep. The cat mewed in the stove corner, so he shot the cat as well. Jesus was hanging over the bed with his heart on the outside, and he shot the heart. The chicks got out from under the brood hen, he stomped on the chicks and shot the hen. He shot out all the windows in the house. He shot all the pots and all the plates. He even shot at the water bucket. When he’d had his fill of shooting he sat down at the table and drank what they’d left him, then he sang a little. At my wedding they were breathless all, for my wedding party was an all-night ball, yes indeed, oh yes indeed, death was all around and pain was near, but I was smiling from ear to ear, and may the good Lord be with us here, yes indeed. Then he dragged Felek the groomsman’s body off the bed, he lay down in his place next to his dead wife and he shot himself as well.

Rowan got up from the table to buy another drink, because for some reason Birchtree wasn’t giving us the signal, and it could have looked suspicious to sit there with empty glasses. The pub was crowded, everyone was drinking, so there must have been spies there as well. All of a sudden someone grabs me by the elbow.

“Aren’t you the Pietruszkas’ kid?”

I don’t look round, but the voice is somehow familiar.

“What, you don’t know your own godfather?” He sits down in Rowan’s seat, and he’s pie-eyed. “You know, the Pietruszkas, that live past the co-op? You had storks on your barn. I mended your stove years back.”

“Go away, you’re barking up the wrong tree.” The whole time I kept looking in the other direction. He turns around to the rest of the room, beats his chest, and says at the top of his voice:

“This is my godson!” And he claps his hand on my shoulder. “Except he won’t own up to his godfather!”

At this the whole place went quiet and I felt everyone staring at me in disapproval, what kind of louse would deny his own godfather.

Rowan comes back with a half-bottle and says, who’s this? I say, I’ve no idea, some guy’s latched on to me, claims he’s my godfather.

“What are you talking about, latched on to you, I’m your godfather! And you’re my godson, the Pietruszkas’ boy. Bring a drink for my godson!”

I could hardly control myself inside, I didn’t know what to do. Finally I leaned forward and said in a friendly way:

“Shut your trap. I’m not any Pietruszka, the name’s Eagle.” The other guy ups and yells:

“What are you talking about, Eagle? You’re the Pietruszkas’ son, I carried you to the altar in these arms. Are you denying your own mother and father?”

“I’m not denying anyone, but these are different times, understand?”

He smashed his fist on the table so hard the glasses jumped.

“I don’t care what times they are, you’re a Pietruszka! And I’m your godfather!”

“If he’s your godfather, ask him if he ever bought you anything,” said Rowan, all riled up. “I bet you didn’t get squat from him! Just like mine! Nothing, ever! They’re all the damn same, those godfathers. Want me to slug him for you?”

“Give it a rest. Let him be my godfather.” I even poured him a drink in my
own glass, thinking he might calm down. But he got even more excited and started shouting again, blathering on about the Pietruszkas. I couldn’t take it anymore, I grabbed him by the neck like a goose and shouted in his face:

“Eagle!” And I squeezed till his eyes almost popped out. A few folks jumped up from their tables, but Rowan blocked their way, watch it, he put his hand in his jacket and they sat back down.

“Pietruszka, you two-faced bastard!” He could barely breathe, but he grabbed hold of my coat and clung on like a drowning man.

“Eagle.” I was so mad I lost it, I squeezed harder and harder. The barmaid screamed and threatened to call the military police.

“Smack him one. Let the godfather have it,” said Rowan, egging me on.

At this moment Birchtree ran into the pub and signaled to let us know the bailiff guy was at the market.

“Let go of me, godfather!” I shouted. But he wouldn’t. Without a second thought I punched him between the eyes. His nose started bleeding and those eyes of his went all cloudy.

“Pietruszka,” he wheezed.

“Eagle.” I whacked him again.

“Don’t hit me. Don’t hit me any more. You can be Eagle.”

I don’t know if God died, if he rose again from the dead, if any of that is true, but blessed eggs taste different than eggs that haven’t been blessed. And nobody’s going to tell me it only seems that way to me. Ordinarily I’m not that wild about eggs, but blessed eggs, I can eat ten of them and still keep going. I don’t need to even have them with bread, just a little salt, of course salt that’s also been blessed. Best of all is with horseradish sauce, that ought to be not just blessed but so strong it knocks your socks off.

Mother would bake
babkas
for Easter. They were famous, those
babkas
of hers. The whole time before the next harvest there could be the worst shortage of flour, there could be no flour even to make the base for
żurek
, but when the harvest was done and the new flour was bolted she’d always set aside enough for her
babkas
, then the rest had to last as long as it could. And when she brought one of those
babkas
down from the attic, because that was where she kept them after they were baked, father and Michał and Antek and Stasiek would sit around the table like foxes round a henhouse, and their mouths would be watering as mother cut the
babka
. Me, I preferred blessed eggs even over
babka
. And usually we’d swap, I’d give someone my slice of
babka
and they’d give me their egg.

If it wasn’t for the blessed eggs I could have done without Easter at all.
Because what kind of holiday is it actually? It’s neither in wintertime nor in spring. Also, you never know when it’s going to fall. You have to look at the calendar every year to see where it’s marked. So you have to buy a new calendar every year if you want to know, like you couldn’t just get used to the same day once and for all. I was born on Good Friday, but I can’t say it was on Good Friday, because Good Friday is different each year. So maybe Jesus didn’t die and rise from the dead after all, if it’s a different time every year?

I like Christmas better. It’s always in the same place. You don’t have to check. Besides which, the year is finishing, and there never was a year you’d want to keep. And I love carols. Way back, when we’d all sing carols together at home, the walls would ring. Then when you went down to the village to hear them singing in other houses, you felt like the Star of Bethlehem that appeared over the stable was about to come to earth. Here there was singing, there there was singing, there was singing at all the neighbors’ and at the edge of the village, and even far, far beyond.

These days too, when Christmas Eve comes along I like to sing a little. Because carols you can sing on your own and it sometimes still seems that everyone’s singing along like in the old days. The one I like best is “God is born.” I still have some of my old voice, and when I take a good deep breath I can make the walls ring like before. The neighbors stop their own singing to listen to me. Quiet there, Szymek’s singing. On a frosty night they can hear me all the way at the end of the village. Even Michał’s all ears when I sing, like he wants it to go on forever.

Sometimes I try and persuade him, if you want I’ll teach you and then the two of us can sing together. Say after me, God is born. First the words, then later the tune. They’re not hard. God is God, obviously. Is born, you know that too. I was born, you were born. A dog is born, a cat, a foal, a calf. Anything that wants to live has to be born. Remember, in the spring we had chicks, they were born as well, except from eggs. We used to sing this one every Christmas. We’d sit around the table, it was a different table back
then, me, you, father, mother, and Antek, Stasiek would be in mother’s arms. When mother was serving the food she’d always give him to you to hold, because he didn’t cry when you had him. One time he peed in your lap. God is born, that’s all there is to sing, don’t be afraid.

Though when I was a young man I liked Easter too. In the fire brigade we’d always stand watch over Christ’s tomb on Good Friday. In our uniforms with all the straps, with our axes at our side, we’d compete whose uniform shone the brightest. The whole week leading up to it we spent polishing our helmets and boots. A helmet like that, the best way to clean it properly was first with ash, then spit, then cloth, and it would shine like a monstrance, when you wore it you looked like Saint George, or maybe another saint, I forget which one used to wear a helmet. For the boots the best thing was a mixture of soot and sour cream, then rabbit skin to give them a shine. Though beforehand you had to go all over the place to try and borrow boots from someone. Because none of the young men had tall boots, only the farmers had them, and then only the better-off ones. Four of us stood watch so we needed eight pairs for the changing of the guard, plus everyone had feet of different sizes, sometimes we had to go all the way to other villages looking for boots, and they were rarely a good fit for everyone. You often had to stand there in boots that were too small for you. They’d pinch and chafe, your legs would go numb up to your knees, and on top of that people would come to look at the tomb, so they’d be looking at us as well, and afterward there was no end of gossip in the village, so-and-so was standing crooked, so-and-so was rocking from side to side, so-and-so was blinking like you wouldn’t believe. But when it came to me they always said, he was standing straight as an arrow.

Then Easter Monday would come around and Dyngus Day, and we’d go from house to house from the early morning wherever there was a good-looking girl. We’d splash the parents a bit first, because you had to, then you’d throw more water over the daughter, though not too much, so you
wouldn’t get it on the walls after they’d been freshly whitewashed. Because if her folks got mad they might not invite you in for something to eat and drink. It was only later, once we’d gone around to a dozen or so houses and we were on the tipsy side, then we’d go all out. We’d toss whole potfuls, whole bucketfuls over them. Any woman that was on her way to church or from church, whether she was single or married, none of them was safe. Some of them we’d lure all the way to the well. Some of us would keep her there, others would draw the water, the girl would scream and we’d all have a good laugh.

One time Zośka Niezgódka managed to get away from us and ran off towards the river. Unluckily for her we caught up with her by the bank. She cried and pleaded with us, she said she had a new dress on, that she had new pumps, a new blouse, everything was new, because her aunt had just sent it from America, and she’d be afraid to go back home if it got wet. So we took all her clothes off. But she cried and begged even more, when she struggled her boobs jumped up and down, and down below she had red hair. Stand still, Zośka, or your maidenhead’ll break and then none of us’ll want to marry you. We grabbed her by the arms and legs and flung her in the river.

We’d always bless a whole
kopa
of eggs, five dozen of them. We’d color half of them red by boiling them in onion skins, the other half green with young rye. And it was always me that took them to be blessed, I never trusted anyone else to do the job properly. I’d squeeze through to the front when the priest got started so the most number of drops from the sprinkler would fall on my eggs, because farther back the priest just waved the thing and hardly any drops made it that far. I still did it even after I grew up. It was only during the war, after I joined the resistance, that Antek started going, and after him Stasiek. But they didn’t keep it up for long. First one of them moved away then the other, and once again it became my job to go get the eggs blessed, because what kind of Easter would it be without blessed eggs. I could go without cake, I could go without sausage, but there had to be blessed eggs.
When you eat one of those blessed eggs, even if you’ve got nothing to be happy about, it’s always hallelujah.