Stone Upon Stone (70 page)

“Michał! It’s me, Szymek!”

He looked in my direction, but only as if to say, who’s blocking the light in the doorway there, then he lowered his eyes again and dug the pitchfork back into the manure.

“You bastard, Skobel! How you could let him do the mucking out? A guy like him!”

“Keep your shirt on. You think this is the old days? Not anymore, things are different now. Was I supposed to feed him for free? Wasn’t for me, he’d have starved to death. Everyone else is only good for feeling sorry. But looking after him, feeding him, all of a sudden they don’t feel so sorry anymore. Let God look after him. One time I found him here in the orchard, he’s eating green plums.”

“So in return for a bowlful of food you make him your farm boy! You’re a piece of work! And him, do you know who he was?”

“Everyone knows. Like people don’t talk? But they forget when someone’s down on their luck.”

“People don’t know squat!”

“People know everything!”

“Michał!” I snatched the pitchfork from his hands. “Home now! Come on, on the double! You miserable shit, Skobel, I’d like to give you a taste of this!” I jammed the pitchfork in the ground inches from his feet, it made him blanch. I pushed Michał out ahead of me.

He walked in front obediently, with me barely limping along behind. Maybe he thought another farmer was taking him to a new job. He never asked questions about who and where, you could lead him anyplace. They could have led him to his death and he never would have even asked, why? It was like there was nothing inside him except the fact that he was walking. I was seething with anger. It was like someone had taken a big stick and stirred me up inside all the way to the bottom, like a pot filled with bubbling kasha. I felt I needed to do something to make him understand that I was back, that I was his brother, that I was taking him home and no Skobel or Macała or anyone else would ever take him again to tie up sheaves or cut beet tops or muck out the cattle shed.

“Hurry up.” I prodded him in the back with one of my sticks, though I couldn’t go any faster myself. My legs were fit to drop off, my hands were wet and stinging from blisters that had burst.

We came into the house.

“This is your home,” I said. “Sit down.”

I went to the cattle shed and took the halter from around the cow’s neck. It was too long so I folded it in four. I returned to the house. He was sitting there like I’d told him to, resting his forehead on his hands and staring at his feet. He stank so bad the whole place smelled of Skobel’s manure. I stood at arm’s length from him. I put the right-hand stick aside and leaned on the left one alone, broad and firm, so as not to lose my balance.

“I have to beat you,” I said, and with all my strength I struck him on the back with the folded-up halter. I did it so hard it made me stagger. He didn’t so much as flinch, or look to see who was hitting him or why. All that happened was a cloud of dust went up from him and there was an even stronger smell of manure. I had to straighten myself because the stick had slipped in my hand, then I whacked him again, and again, and one more time. He didn’t react. Though he’d only have had to give me a slight push and I would have gone crashing to the floor. He was still a strapping guy just the same, even though he was underweight, and I was leaning on a single walking stick with a red-raw, swollen hand, and on a pair of exhausted crippled legs, and I had nothing to prop myself up with. Plus, with every blow the halter shook me like a reed in the wind, when for a beating like that you need to be planted foursquare like a table, your feet rooted to the ground, and the ground afraid to shift beneath you. Then you can give a beating. Not just with the halter but with your whole body, with all your pain, your rage. Then you could even make a rock shed tears. Though it would’ve been easier to make a rock cry than him. All of a sudden he took his head from his hands, put his palms on his knees and leaned forward, like he was trying to make his back as broad as possible for the beating. I started beating that back, gathering myself for every blow like I was passing sacks of grain to be put on the wagon. My whole body twisted with each swing. The rage grew within me. It would have been enough for a dozen halters. I felt it around me even, like the room was furious along with me, the whole house, the cattle shed, the barn, the farmyard, the whole village, the land. It was the rage helped me forget that me, a brother, I was beating my own brother. And what was I beating him for? Truth was, I didn’t really know, and I don’t think I ever will. Only he knew. But not the slightest murmur passed his lips. His beaten body didn’t even groan of its own accord, the way bodies do when they’re being beaten. Even a tree, if you hit it it’ll groan, a rock will make a sound. But here, only the halter moaned. The halter was doubled up with pain. If it could have, it
probably would have leaped at me and at the very least stayed my hand to stop me beating any more. Or it would have wrapped itself around my neck like a snake and hung me from the ceiling.

I was breathless. I felt like I’d climbed a high mountain on those crippled legs of mine. I felt I was stopping. My arm weakened and the halter was just flopping from my back to his. All at once the stick, which for a long time had been shaking under me like a willow branch, fell out of my hand when I took another swipe. I staggered so bad I would have fallen over if I hadn’t grabbed the side of the table at the last moment. My first reaction was to bend over and pick up the stick. But I was stopped by a terrible pain in my right knee. I broke out in a cold sweat, and something popped in my lower back. Ever so slowly, one hand holding on to the table, the other reaching toward the floor like a rake, I bent over farther and farther. Finally I got ahold of it. Except that when I straightened up, I got dizzy. I barely made it to the bench, and I dropped down exhausted, like I’d just come back from the fields after a whole day bringing in the harvest.

“You’re not to muck out at Skobel’s ever again,” I said.

He sat there with his head drooping on his chest and his hands on his knees, like he hadn’t even noticed I’d stopped beating him. From outside there was a constant creaking of wagons, everyone was bringing in the harvest. By now almost everyone had rubber tires on their wagons, and you couldn’t hear them the way you used to with iron rims. Now you could hear the horses more. They were walking slowly, like they were carrying the wagons on their backs.

I suddenly wished that one of the neighbors would come by, someone from the village. Or a stranger. I had no business with anyone, nor anyone with me. But I wanted someone to come, maybe it would be on his way, or he was coming home from the fields and he heard I was back. Or just like that, because he didn’t have anyone else to visit. Kuś, or Prażuch, they’d have come for sure if they’d still been alive. Because the ones that were dead were
the ones you could most rely on. I even started listening to see if I couldn’t hear steps in the passage. Maybe the door handle would rattle. The door would open. Someone would stand at the threshold, they’d say, Christ be praised, or just, good afternoon.

“What are you sitting like that for, like you were perched on a field boundary outside? Have you just come in from the fields, or did someone die?”

“Neither the one nor the other. I was just giving Michał a beating. With this halter, see?”

“A beating? A brother giving a brother a beating? You’re grown up, the both of you. Brothers mostly only fight when they’re young.”

And maybe it was from waiting in vain that it occurred to me to give him a bath. I’ll cut his hair and give him a shave, then someone can come. I got up from the bench. I put the walking sticks in my raw hands. It stung all the way to my elbows. I could barely stay on my feet.

“You stay put,” I said. “I’m going to give you a bath.” I shuffled off to find a bathtub. Luckily they had one at the Pająks’, so I didn’t have to go far. Pająk even brought it to the house for me. He set it in the middle of the room and wedged it in place with laths so it wouldn’t wobble. Then he brought two bucketfuls of water from the spring, filled some pots, and put them on to heat.

“People should help each other in their misfortune. You helped me in my bad hour. Remember the oration you made at our Włodziu’s funeral?”

“How long ago was that, Bronisław. I’m amazed you still remember.”

“Course I remember, I’ll remember till the day I die. The priest said what he had to to be over and done with it. All he was thinking about was how to get back home to the presbytery soon as he could, he was stamping his feet. It made no difference to him whether it was our Włodziu or somebody else. Son of a bitch didn’t even say he’d been blown up by a mine, it looked like he’d just died of typhus or dysentery. Don’t go there, Włodziu, I said to him, the sappers’ll come and clear the mines from our land. But no, off he went.
And you, you didn’t care that there was a frost, though it was so cold everyone’s tears froze. You didn’t miss anything out, you said he was a good child, he respected his parents, and he was like a grain of wheat sprouting from the seed, but that he never grew to be a spike. Because it was like someone cut him down deliberately with a willow switch. You hear, mother, I said to my old lady, you hear what kind of son we had? And God took him from us.”

I gathered a few sticks around the yard and lit the stove. The fire took, and right away it was like something came to life in the house. Soon steam started rising from the pots.

“Take your clothes off,” I said. I set a chair between the stove and the bathtub. I leaned with all my weight on the stove. I put one pot first on the chair, then from the chair onto the ground right next to the tub, and only then I leaned over and poured it out. My face covered with condensation from the steam. I added a little cold water from the bucket. “Come on, it’ll get cold. Take your clothes off.”

He didn’t respond, he just sat there. As best I could I undressed him with one hand, because I had to hold on to the table with the other one. Luckily he didn’t resist. He still stank so bad from Skobel’s manure it stung my nose. It was only when I pulled off his underwear that he suddenly curled up and started shivering, like he was ashamed of being naked.

“There’s no need to be embarrassed in front of me,” I said. “I’m your brother. There’s no one here but you and me. Pająk went home. Come on.” I took him by the hand and led him to the tub. He stood there, hesitating. “Don’t be afraid, it’s only water,” I said.

He squeezed my hand and wouldn’t let go, as if I was leading him into a deep pool, though it barely came up to his ankles. As he stood in the tub he reminded me of someone, but I couldn’t figure out who. Maybe it was the hair falling down his back and the beard that reached down to his waist. He was so skinny his bones almost poked through his skin, and also the skin hung from him the way snow sometimes hangs from a branch when there’s
a thaw. His back was covered in blue welts from where I’d beaten him. The hair between his legs was gray as a mouse, though on his head he only had the odd gray hair, same with his beard. Usually your private parts are the last to go gray.

“Sit down,” I said. “First of all I’m going to soap you up.”

I’d brought myself a piece of soap from the hospital. Someone had left it in the washroom and I took it, like I had a feeling it’d come in handy. I moved the chair up to the tub, sat down, and poured water all over him out of a mug so he’d soak a bit. Then I lathered up some soap in my hands. And carefully, so as not to hurt him, I soaped up his back, his chest, his arms, everything. His skin was twitching like a rabbit’s when you stroke it. I could feel the trembling pass into me as well, though I was barely touching him, more with the lather than with my hands.

“Stop shivering,” I said. “I’m not doing anything bad to you. I’m washing you. You always liked to get washed. Remember when mother would give us a bath for Christmas or Easter, you’d never want to get out of the water? While me, father would sometimes have to chase me into the tub with his belt because I’d be pretending to still be asleep. Or the water would be too hot for me, or the soap got in my eyes. Or when we’d go down to the river to wash, remember? First you’d soap my back, then I’d do yours. Then we’d scrub our feet with a rock or with sand. When we didn’t feel like washing we’d scare each other with ghost stories. Mostly I’d scare you. Look, Michał, there’s something standing over there. See, there by that willow tree. It’s white, like it’s dressed in a sheet. It’s a ghost! And we’d take to our heels. Me first, you behind. Mother and father would say, what’s happened? We saw a ghost! You’re just trying to get out of bathing, these boys are a cross to bear! Mother was always like that. And you’re going to get into bed with those dirty feet? If it was down by the river it must have been the Bartosz girl’s ghost, father would say. He was always more likely to believe us. You should have said to it, in the name of the Father and the Son, what is it your
soul needs? The Bartosz girl wouldn’t have done anything to hurt you. She used to like going down to the river when she was still alive, seems she still does now. She’d sit on the bank and stare at the water. What on earth do you see out there, Agata, I asked her one time, I’d gone to fetch water from the spring. Oh, it’s always something different, Józef, always something different. Though what could she see there, sand, mud, rocks, and the river flowing.”

I took the chair and moved to the other side of the tub, because it was hard for me to reach all of him from the one place.

“Do you remember that time we went swimming by Błach’s place on Saint John’s Day at the end of June? Because swimming would start on Saint John’s Day always. That’s the day Saint John blesses the rivers. Though I often used to go swimming before Saint John’s Day, even in May sometimes. It was so hot that year the leaves were curling up. There were hordes of boys and girls, more bodies than water. Even the willows along the bank were wet from all the splashing. Fredek Zięba brought their horse down, as many of us as could fit climbed up on it, and it was giddyup! into the water. There were kids hanging from its neck, clinging to its tail. Shouts and screams, you’d think the heavens were coming down. But you were sitting on the bank, by the osier bushes, and you were trying to stop yourself from crying, because you couldn’t swim. I kept trying to persuade you, come on, Michał, you’ll learn, hold on to the horse’s tail and kick your feet as hard as you can. Come on! Everyone was encouraging you. You should just jump in headfirst, Michał! Put your hands together like you’re praying, stretch them out in front of you, and jump! Go for it! Or, let’s throw him in, that’s the fastest way to learn! Let’s get him! You ran away, we chased after you. We caught up with you in Mrs. Machała’s field, you slipped and fell in a furrow. You fought, spat, bit our hands. But there were four of us. We carried you down to the river, swung you by the arms and legs, and boom! The splash was so big we got soaked. Wave your arms, Michał! Wave your arms and legs! But you, as if to
spite us you didn’t move either your arms or your legs, and you went straight to the bottom. I had to dive in and fish you out. You’d swallowed so much water you couldn’t catch your breath, and afterwards you had hiccups for the longest time. Later on father gave me the belt for trying to drown you. But that was the quickest way to learn! That’s how everyone was taught, they’d take your arms and legs and wham! Save yourself or you’ll drown! Me, they even threw me from a willow tree so it’d be from even higher. And that was exactly the right thing for me. When I was in the resistance, one time I had to jump from a bridge. I was being chased from behind, ahead of me the road was blocked, there wasn’t any other way out.”