Wieslaw Mysliwski - Stone Upon Stone

“Jesus and Mary! Józef! Józef!” squealed his wife. I jumped forward as well to save him, though I didn’t exactly know how. Rysiek was yelping also:

“Dad! Dad!”

Luckily Kuśmierek came to and breathed a sigh of relief. Except he looked at us like he didn’t recognize us. That short moment had tired him out as much as if he’d been mowing on a steep slope.

I felt sorry for him. Any father wants the best for his kid.

“Don’t be mad, Józef,” I said. “He’s young, he’s got time.”

“Am I telling him to rush, damn him? I’m telling him to study!”

“There’s nothing you can do. That’s how it is with young folks — they’re in no hurry to study,” I said, because I was feeling sorry for the boy as well. Was it his fault he was bad at school? I just regretted bringing the letter. I told him not to bother reading any more.

“Leave it be, Rysiek. It’s fine as it is. If you change it you might make it worse.” I took the letter back. At this, Kuśmierek took offense as if for Rysiek.

“I mean, who even writes to their own brothers like that. You need to begin, In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost. That would remind them right away about their family home. They might even give you something towards that tomb of yours.”

All of a sudden Rysiek started saying it wasn’t fashionable anymore to start letters with God. They’d had a lesson about how to write letters and he knew. It was like Kuśmierek was struck by lightning:

“You little bastard, you’re telling me God isn’t in fashion? That’s what I’m paying for you to learn?!”

But Rysiek had gotten over his fear and he snapped back at his father that he didn’t give a damn about studying. Give him what was his and he’d get married.

I got up and left, because what business was it of mine. Let them argue among themselves.

The next day I wrote the letter out again because it was all dirty from Rysiek’s fingers. I added that if they were planning to visit they should bring bags for flour, because as it happened I’d been bolting and I had some good flour. I was just saying that, because I didn’t at all think they’d come, but it made the letter a bit longer.

It must have been a month or so later that a letter came from them saying they were going to visit the following Sunday. I didn’t know whether to believe it or not. But I cleaned the house. I got fresh bedding ready. I brought mother’s quilt down from the attic, because it was the biggest one. And though they were going to sleep in the same bed, I gave them two pillows so their heads would be apart. I changed the straw in the mattress. I threshed two sheaves with the flail so it wouldn’t be lumpy. Though it was hard for me to stand for long on those legs of mine. I had to pull the chaff-cutter up behind my back and lean on it, otherwise I couldn’t have done it. I even put some dried thyme under the sheet to keep the fleas away, like mother used to do.

I bathed Michał and shaved him, and I gave him a fresh shirt and a necktie. He’s their brother too, after all. There was an ash bucket stood in the room that was old and full of holes. For some reason I’d always been reluctant to throw it out, but because they were coming I tossed it without a second thought. I put in a brighter electric bulb. Let it be lighter while they were here, after they left I’d change it back again. I killed a rooster and made chicken broth. I was going to make noodles, but I decided to buy some instead. They’re used to the store-bought stuff, they might not like homemade. I also bought a bottle of vodka, because you have to have a glass with your brothers. I even took down the Lord Jesus with the apostles and put it in the other room, because I remembered Stasiek isn’t that big on God. He might get annoyed. And I won’t know how to defend him, because on the one hand it’s God, on the other hand it’s my brother. Oh well. What people won’t do to keep the peace in a family.

They came. But they’d barely crossed the threshold and said their hellos when they started in on me. That there wasn’t anything to sit on here except the same old bench and a single chair. That the table was the same one from the war. That why don’t I have a proper floor put in? Why don’t I plant an orchard? Why don’t I get married? I need a housekeeper! Am I waiting for a princess? One thing after another. Why not this? Why not that? And not a word about dying. It was like I’d never even written them the letter.

I was stunned, I barely said a word. I even forgot to ask what was new with them. And I didn’t let on about the bottle I’d bought. I mean, what for? So we could drink while we were arguing? Maybe a better opportunity would come along. Then we’d have a drink and we’d talk like brothers.

Because when brothers only get together once in such a long time they ought to have something to talk about. Talk all day and all night. Even if they don’t feel like talking, because what are words for? Words lead the way of their own accord. Words bring everything out onto the surface. Words take everything that hurts and whines and they drag it all out from the deepest depths. Words let blood, and you feel better right away. And not just with outsiders, with your brothers also words can help you find each other, feel like brothers again. However far away they’ve gone, words will bring them back to the one life they came from, like from a spring. Because words are a great grace. When it comes down to it, what are you given other than words? Either way there’s a great silence waiting for us in the end, and we’ll have our fill of silence. Maybe we’ll find ourselves scratching at the walls for the sake of the least little word. And every word we didn’t say to each other in this world we’ll regret like a sin. Except it’ll be too late. And how many of those unsaid words stay in each person and die with him, and rot with him, and they aren’t any use to him either in his suffering, or in his memory? So why do we make each other be silent, on top of everything else?

Though perhaps it was my fault. Because when I saw them I didn’t really know what to say and I just said in an ordinary way:

“Oh, you’re here.”

As if they’d just gotten back from the fields, or from market in town, or from the next village. When actually they’d come from the outside world. And when had we last seen each other? At father’s funeral. Stasiek was still at the university then. He was wearing a ragged old overcoat and shoes with worn-down heels. He didn’t even have any gloves, he was skinny and hollow-cheeked. I slipped a few zlotys in his pocket as he was leaving and he was so grateful he even tried to kiss my hand. I wouldn’t let him. Now, he was on the stout side, ruddy, his chin spilling out over his collar. The front of his head was completely bald, it was only at the back and on the sides he still had some of his old shock of hair left. At first I wasn’t even sure if it was Stasiek or not. But I pretended he hadn’t changed at all and I didn’t say a word about him being so bald. I welcomed him like you welcome your brother.

Antek had just gotten married back then. He even had a photograph of his wife. We’d barely buried father when he took the picture out of his wallet and asked if I thought she was pretty. I didn’t much like her, but what could I say. Yes, she’s pretty.

And I didn’t tell him off either for not letting me know, so I could have sent best wishes.

That time too we didn’t talk at all among ourselves. First because it was a funeral and the right thing to do was talk about father, because it was his day. He deserved at least a few words from each of us for his whole life. Second, Stasiek had some important examination the next day. So we just drank a bottle to mark our sorrow, and ate some sausage. Then they left.