The Graveyard (3 page)

He looked about him attentively, his face still impassive. It was an unpretentious room, with walls of a nondescript
color, the room itself divided in two by a railing. Near the middle of the railing the paint which had once covered it was rubbed off; Franciszek thought that this must be because so many “customers” had leaned against it. On the walls hung portraits of government officials, and above them the Polish eagle. A wooden bench stood by one of the walls; a man was asleep on it, his back turned to the room. “You wouldn’t say this place was very well run,” Franciszek thought once again, and the thought gave him a kind of malicious satisfaction.

Meanwhile the policemen were behaving as though Franciszek did not exist. They were talking in an undertone with a man seated behind the railing. Franciszek heard his nasal voice but could not see his face, which was hidden by the backs of the policemen. For a minute or so he did not move, expecting to be asked to step up and make a statement, but nothing happened. Then, after listening awhile, Franciszek realized that they were not talking about him, but about a bicycle that had been reported stolen a week earlier. One of the policemen maintained that the thief was a certain Pasterka; the other, that the bicycle owner had sold it to pay for his drinks, and was afraid to admit it to his wife. “Damn the whole business,” Franciszek thought. “If that’s the way they’re going to act, I’ll tell them what I think of all this.” He moved closer to the railing and saw that the policeman seated at the desk was also a mere corporal. This took him completely by surprise; he had thought that the men who had brought him here were talking with a lieutenant.

“I beg your pardon,” he said loudly, moving to the middle of the room. “Could I speak to the chief?”

The policemen went on talking with the seated corporal for a while, then turned toward him.

“I’d like to speak to the chief,” Franciszek repeated.

“Oh, yes,” said the sergeant. He turned to the corporal at the desk. “I suppose we’ll put this citizen in temporary. How are things in there today?”

“A bit crowded,” said the man behind the desk. He cast a quick glance at Franciszek. “But there’ll be plenty of room for him too.”

“What temporary?” Franciszek asked.

“Take your things off,” the sergeant said. He turned again, and Franciszek saw only his broad back crossed by a diagonal leather strap.

“What?” he asked.

“Didn’t you hear me, Citizen? Take your things off, please. Your belt, scarf, shoelaces, and papers. And empty your pockets.”

“We’ve given you the papers,” said the corporal who had escorted Franciszek to the station.

“But why, damnit?” Franciszek asked.

The sergeant turned and looked at Franciszek with impatience. “What do you mean ‘why’? You’re under arrest,” he said peremptorily. “Or do you think we’ve brought you here just to shake your noble hand?”

The three of them laughed uproariously. Franciszek was so startled that he did not even notice their laughter. “Under arrest?” he said. “What for?”

“Don’t you know?”

“No,” Franciszek said resolutely. He came close to the railing, and put his hands on it. “I do not know. I remember that I somehow flew off the handle, but it seems to me that’s no good reason for keeping me locked up all night.”

“No good reason?” the sergeant drawled. “And what about the things you shouted? Don’t you remember what you shouted?”

The three of them stared at him, and Franciszek suddenly shriveled. For a moment they were all silent; the man asleep on the bench was breathing heavily.

“No,” Franciszek said after a while. He passed his hand over his forehead. “I don’t remember.”

“Well, then, we’ll talk after you’ve sobered up and can remember everything exactly,” said the sergeant. “Then you’ll sign a statement, and we’ll let you go.”

“Couldn’t that be done now?” Franciszek asked.

The corporal at the desk laughed. “How can you make a statement,” he inquired, “when you say yourself that you don’t remember anything?”

“What do you mean? I remember everything.”

“Everything?” asked the sergeant mockingly.

Franciszek’s face fell. “Everything,” he said in an uncertain voice, looking at the sergeant pleadingly. “Everything—except the exact words I shouted. I can’t repeat them exactly, but if you remind me …” He made a vague gesture with his hand.

“We’ll remind you in the morning,” said the sergeant. “It’s those words we’re interested in. And now, that’ll be enough, Citizen. Please hand us your belt, shoelaces, scarf, and everything you have in your pockets.” He cast a reproachful glance at Franciszek, and added gently, “Don’t make it hard for us, Citizen.”

“But—” Franciszek began.

The corporal behind the railing banged his fist on the desk. “Do you or do you not understand human speech? Hand over your things, and don’t talk so much, or you’ll be sorry!”

With trembling hands Franciszek began to remove his things from his pockets and put them on the desk—a
handkerchief, a comb, a little mirror, a fountain pen, and a pencil. The corporal made a list of them and thrust them into an enormous gray envelope; on it he wrote in clumsy letters, “Franciszek Kowalski, 3.28.1952.” He went to a cupboard and opened it. Out of the corner of his eye Franciszek noticed that there were many such envelopes, placed evenly one beside another, indistinguishable. The corporal closed the cupboard and sat down again at the desk. He handed Franciszek a receipt and, pointing to the place with his finger, said dryly, “Sign here.”

Franciszek signed and gave him back the paper. “I am a former partisan,” he said bitterly. “Never in my life have I done anything I could be ashamed of.” His words came out with increasing speed. “Someone will pay for this mistake. It’s unheard-of that a man should be locked up just for taking a few glasses of vodka. You must believe me; this is the first time in my life I have ever been in a police station.”

“That’s fine,” the corporal said without even looking at him. “But there is a first time for everything.”

The sergeant said, “And now, please, follow me.”

Holding up his trousers, Franciszek followed him. They walked along a filthy dark corridor lit only by small wire-encased bulbs hung near the ceiling. Then the sergeant opened a door, and said, “Here.”

Franciszek walked in; he wanted to say something, but at that moment the door banged shut. He stood still for a moment, listening; his thoughts could not catch up with the pace of events. He leaned his hand against the wall, and withdrew it in disgust: the wall was rough, cold, and clammy. The sergeant’s footsteps died away.

UNTIL THE MOMENT WHEN HE HEARD THE DOOR
bang shut, Franciszek had not clearly realized his position: everything had happened too quickly, in an atmosphere of hysteria that didn’t seem quite real. Not until he had been in the stuffy cell for a while, and his eyes had become sufficiently accustomed to the half darkness to distinguish the people lying on the floor, did he realize that he would irrevocably remain a prisoner for several hours. At first this realization threw him into a rage, and he pounded and kicked the door; but, as no one responded, he soon grew tired; a little later he was even amused. “The whole thing is ridiculous,” he thought. “Nothing but a stupid mistake; somebody will have to pay for it later.”

Calming down, he examined the cell. Around him, on the floor and on the two benches, people were sleeping. They seemed shriveled, comically small. They slept in all sorts of positions, strangely doubled over, with legs pulled up to their chins; and a giant of a man, whose bald head gleamed faintly in the dim light, slept standing, his hands clinging to an iron netting on the wall. Franciszek tried to sit down on the floor; but as he squatted he suddenly felt a pair of legs being pulled from under him, and someone said hoarsely, “Watch what you’re doing, damn you!”

Franciszek got up, and once again took two uncertain
steps, trampling on arms and legs; their owners jerked them back with sudden froglike motions. The air was heavy with the smell of stale alcohol; even now, when they were asleep, their mouths drooling, it was obvious that almost everyone in the cell was dead drunk. “At least, this is my first time,” Franciszek thought, and the reflection comforted him. “After all, one out of every five men is always drunk. It must be discouraging for the police. I was a bit tight, I made too much noise, and that was the cause of all the trouble. Nothing to be upset about. Come on, pull yourself together. You’re getting to be a nervous wreck; you’re petering out, and it’s all because you’re tired. You shouldn’t have drunk all that vodka; that’s why you behaved like a bum in the street. I suppose all of us have to play hooky every now and then, no matter how old we are.” At that moment he felt almost grateful to the police for having brought him here, to this dark cell, filled to the last inch with drunks, thereby teaching him a bitter lesson. “Yes, you stupid old bum, this will teach you,” he thought, clenching his fists with rage.

At last he found a bit of free space, and sat down on the cold concrete, resting his chin on his knees. “You’ve got what you deserve, you fool,” he said to himself. “You could have slept in a comfortable bed, under a warm blanket; you could have had a glass of tea with lemon, and you have only your own stupidity to thank, old man, for having to spend the night curled up like an embryo. You’ll be a fine-looking mess when they come to let you out.”

Someone beside him suddenly wakened, sat up with a groan, yawned widely, and began to rub his eyes, all the while grumbling like a bear. Then he turned an indistinct face toward Franciszek. “Captain, do you happen to have a cigarette?” he asked.

Franciszek automatically patted his pockets. “No,” he said; “they were taken from me.”

The other man moved closer. “What for?” he asked hoarsely.

“What do you mean, what for?”

“Why did they arrest you?”

“Oh,” said Franciszek, smiling. “I was a little tight, that’s all. I just sang in the street.”

After a moment of silence, Franciszek’s neighbor said in a worried voice: “That’s bad. Very bad.”

“Bad?” Franciszek asked. “Why?”

“You can get a long term for singing,” the other said. “You think it’s only a song, nothing at all; you think you’re innocent, still … Did you resist?”

“No, not at all; I only flew off the handle a bit.”

The stranger yawned. “Knock on the door,” he said. “If someone comes, ask him; maybe they’ll let you go. What time do you think it is?”

“I don’t know. Three, maybe later …”

The stranger pondered awhile. “By now Lieutenant Malinowski should be on duty,” he said. “He’s a good egg. If he comes here, ask him politely, and he’ll let you go—if it’s true you didn’t do anything.”

“But of course I didn’t do anything,” Franciszek said with a shrug. “I’m telling you, I was a little drunk, and I sang.”

“What did you sing?”

“Does it matter?”

“Of course it does. There’s a world of difference between one song and another. What did you sing about?”

“I don’t remember, and then, it’s really beside the point … An old army song.”

The stranger whistled. “Couldn’t be worse,” he said. “You’re in for it, sure as the Our Father ends with Amen.” He bent over someone, and shook him by the arm. “Mr. Sikorski, Mr. Sikorski! Would you sing the song they locked you up for?”

A man invisible in the darkness sang:

The singer finished, and swore lustily. Franciszek’s neighbor said: “Now, you see. There’s a difference between one song and another. If you were singing that when they hooked you, it would be bad.”

“I’ve never heard it before,” Franciszek said. “And I’d never sing anything so stupid. I’m telling you, I sang an old army song.”

“You must remember what it was,” the other said resolutely. “It’s vital. You have to know why they locked you up. When you’re questioned you have to know what it’s all about, and how to behave. What song could it be? ‘The Legions’? Probably not, or you’d remember. Anyway, ‘The Legions’ doesn’t amount to a hill of beans; at the most you’d get eighteen months for it. What damn’ thing can it be? Aha,” he drawled, “could it be this? Just a moment.” He shook someone violently. The shaken man sat up and began to rub his eyes. Franciszek’s neighbor asked: “Mr. Nowak, what were you singing when they picked you up?”

The man addressed as Mr. Nowak sobbed a moment, and then sang in a gentle, soft tenor:

No sooner had he finished than he lay down to sleep again. Franciszek’s neighbor asked: “Was that it?”

“No.”

“Please, try to remember. Sometimes you get more for a joke than for a song.” He suddenly turned around and called out into the darkness, “Hey, Mr. Aleksandrowicz!”

“Yes,” someone said at the other corner of the cell.

“What did that fellow get, the one that was here last month—you know, the one that told the joke about Little Boy Joe?”

“His case hasn’t come up yet,” came the reply from the other corner, “but I don’t think he’ll get off with less than five years. The other fellow who was with him and told the grain-hoarding joke got three years, so how much would you think the other one’s good for?”

Franciszek’s neighbor sighed. “You see,” he said, “there are words and words. Well, brace yourself … Happen to have a cigarette?”

“I told you I didn’t,” Franciszek said. The conversation was getting on his nerves.

The stranger yawned. “Too bad,” he said. “You won’t mind, then, will you, if I take a litle nap to get my strength back. Every time I spend the night here I dream of grapevines in the southern sunlight. I love Greece. I have visions of noble-faced sages in long tunics, of virgins in transparent robes gliding about among cypresses in full bloom. Even in this cell I can hear their songs throbbing with the joy of life …”
Leaving the sentence unfinished, he dropped like a log, and began to snore with such force that Franciszek shuddered.