Wieslaw Mysliwski - Stone Upon Stone

“Go to him, Zośka, if he only sees one of us it won’t be such a big sin.”

And Zosia pouts and fumes, but she comes to me. And once she comes behind the bush she’ll go farther.

“Come over here, Zosia, under this alder, and I’ll give you back your clothes. A little bit farther and I’ll give them back to you. Almost there. I’ll give you them over there. In that patch of sunlight. In that shade. Don’t be embarrassed, there’s no need to feel embarrassed in front of me, and the girls are out of sight. You can hear them in the river.”

And Zosia would come closer and closer.

In the winter I’d go where they were plucking feathers and husking beans. They’d all gather, the girls and young men and old folks. The evenings were long, there was nothing else to do, and you could at least hear your fill of ghosts and devils and witches, because back in the day there were all kinds of them in the village, they lived alongside the people and the livestock. Then when it got dark it’d be time to head off back home. And it was common knowledge ghosts and devils and witches only ever went around at night, and that their favorite thing was to go after young women. The ones that lived close by, it wasn’t such a problem for them. The farmer or his wife would come out in front of the house with a lantern and wait till they heard their neighbor’s door creak. But the girls who lived farther off needed to be walked home. And I’d usually choose the one that was most afraid or lived the farthest away. Actually I never had to choose. They knew me, that I’d walk to the ends of the earth in the darkest night, because I didn’t believe in any ghosts or devils or witches, though I liked hearing about how other people had seen them. So either the girl would come up to me herself:

“Say, Szymek, will you walk me back? I won’t be scared if you’re with me.”

Or the farmer’s wife would say:

“Szymek, take Magda back, she lives way over near the woods and she’s frightened to go on her own.”

And since nothing brings people closer together than fear or a long journey, it often happened that the girl would cling to me the moment we set off, squeezing against me, leaning her head on my shoulder, and me with my arm around her. The snow would be creaking underfoot. The road was quiet and deserted, not a living soul to be seen, and after a few steps she’d let herself be kissed. Also, there were more stars in the sky than pears on a pear tree, so we’d stop and look up at the stars. Which one is yours? Because that one there is mine. How do you like that, they’re right next to each other. Then we’d kiss again, like the two stars. And we’d follow the stars all the way to her house. And if her old folks were sound asleep, we’d end up under her quilt.

Though I preferred summer to winter. In the summertime the world is wide open, orchards, meadows, fields, woods, haystacks, sheaves, bushes. You didn’t have to have a house, all you needed was the sky over your head. In the summer the girls’ blood was hotter from being warmed up out in the fields. In the summer you didn’t need to chase around after them, they fell into your arms by themselves. There’d be times you were mowing barley in your own field, and she’d be cutting wheat with a sickle in the next field, and all you had to do was cross from your barley to her wheat.

“Let me give you a hand, Hania.”

Or she’d start it herself:

“Could you help me out, Szymuś? I’ve still got so much to do.”

And in a wheat field you don’t have to worry about talking her into anything. Wheat is like a turned-down bed. The wheat’s hot, the sun’s shining above it. The girl would lie down and you’d take hold of her among the spikes and seeds like you were taking bread from an oven with your bare hands.

It must’ve been the devil tempted me to sow wheat on the other side of the road. I was going to plant potatoes, but Antek Kwiecień came to lend me a spade and we got to talking, what are you sowing, what are you planting, and how it was a waste of that land across the road to plant potatoes. Potatoes you can plant any old where. Over there, that’s the perfect place for wheat. It’s flat as can be, it’ll be no work at all, and this is going to be a good year for wheat. You can tell, the storks aren’t even thinking about flying away yet. Sow wheat. If it grows well you’d have to plant twice as many potatoes to equal it. And I won’t deny it, it did grow well. The stalks were as tall as me, every spike as thick as my finger, and the grains were fat and oily. Everyone that came past would say, that’s some fine wheat you got there, you’ll have grain like gold from that. It was a pleasure to mow. Even the weather helped out, like it was trying to live up to the wheat. It only rained once, and even that was nothing to speak of. I’d already started figuring out how many sacks I’d need once I threshed it, how much I’d leave for myself and how much I’d sell. Antek Kwiecień deserved a drink. I just had to finish bringing it in.

I spent all Saturday bringing in the sheaves, till late at night, and I counted on finishing Monday. The horse could rest up on Sunday, eat its fill of oats, then on Monday he’d work like a machine. And I’d be fresher after Sunday as well.

On Sunday there happened to be a church fair because it was the Feast of the Assumption. I’ve always liked fairs ever since I was a kid, so I went. But fairs aren’t what they used to be. Two or three wagons, other than that it was all cars and motorcycles. More outsiders than locals. There was no knowing where they’d all come from or why. Pretzels with no taste, nothing but water and baking powder and flour; back then you could have any kind you wanted. And there wasn’t half the stuff for sale there used to be. Back then there’d be two or three rows of stalls around the church wall, and every one loaded with things, especially all kinds of candies. Even the grown-ups would be watering at the mouth. And you could buy whatever your heart desired. Every animal that ever lived under the sun. Every saint there ever was. Our Ladies, big ones, small ones, with veils or wreaths on their head, crowned, with an Infant Jesus and without. Lord Jesuses on the cross and fallen under the cross, on Golgotha, with the lamb, risen from the dead. Armfuls of rosaries, beads, all sorts of trinkets. And on every stall, piles of mouth organs, swords, trumpets, pipes, whistles, everything a child could wish for. There was bunion cream, shoe polish, whetstones. You could listen to adventures from wartime, from plagues, from the wide world. People played and sang songs about bandits and rebels and bad children who threw their parents out of the house, and about evil stepmothers. There were people prophesying what would happen in a year’s time, in ten years and a hundred, and a good few things even came true. You could play black-and-white, hoops, dice, fishing, or try the shooting gallery. You could have a tooth pulled on the spot if you had the toothache. Or get your boots patched. Or have your picture taken in an airplane, on a camel, in a general’s uniform, or with your girl in a cutout heart.

But today? Today it’s all about conning people out of their money. And people are daft as monkeys, they’ll let themselves get taken in by any old thing. They buy and buy, whatever’s put in front of them, you can barely push through to see what’s at the stalls. Though even if I wanted to buy something, who would I buy it for?

The only thing I bought was an Our Lady in a blue dress. Years ago I’d broken one like that of mother’s. She’d gotten it on a pilgrimage way back when she was still single. I’d been swatting flies, the house was so full of them they wouldn’t let you sit in peace, and they were biting especially badly, the way they do before a storm. Mother was getting dinner ready and the Our Lady was up on this little shelf. One of the flies landed on it, and I swatted at it, but I missed the fly and the Our Lady came crashing down onto the floor. I froze, and mother burst out: