Jerzy Pilch - A Thousand Peaceful Cities

“And besides, what do you mean by ‘whomever?’ There aren’t any whomevers here. Whom am I supposed to kill? Małgosia Snyperek? Grand Master Swaczyna? Mrs. Rychter? Perhaps I’m supposed to raise my sacrilegious hand against Pastor Potraffke, or Station Master Ujejski? Sexton Messerschmidt? There aren’t any ‘whomevers’ here. There aren’t any accidental passersby here. Everybody knows each other here, and knows each other as intimately as, if I may say so, you and I, Commandant. .”

“In that case, why don’t you choose someone by lottery, or even better,” an almost genuine note of sudden desperation and readiness to bear the greatest sacrifices sounded in the Commandant’s voice, “or even better, why not me? Yes, why don’t you kill me?”

“You? Absolutely not.”

“Why? Why absolutely not me?” The Commandant was not able to check the reflexive disappointment and almost injured ambition in his voice. “Why absolutely not me?”

“Because I don’t intend to acquire the reputation of an anti-Semite in my old age.”

“Mr. Trąba. .” The Commandant’s voice suddenly broke. Everything was now clear. It was as clear as day who would remain standing, who was already the victor in this seemingly evenly matched duel. Everything was so unyielding that I didn’t even feel like recording the final word, which would be declared any minute. I only formulated it in my thoughts.

“Mr. Trąba, I’m an atheist.” The Commandant was as pale as ashes, and drops of oily and icy sweat broke out on his forehead.

“Fine.” Mr. Trąba danced around his staggering opponent with the murderous lightness of a triumphant heavyweight boxer. “Fine. Just utter this one phrase without hesitation: ‘I’m not a Jew, I’m an atheist.’ Say it, toss out this stylistic pearl, and I will answer you, just as the Chief sometimes answers me.” Mr. Trąba bowed in Father’s direction. “Then I will answer you: ‘A beautiful phrase and worthy of reward.’”

Father, like a golem set in motion by a magic spell, stood up from behind the table, went up to the cabinet, and did what he always did: he extracted a bottle and glasses. Mother was carrying a tureen full of potato pancakes in sour cream. Thunder resounded, and black rains came crashing down with redoubled might. Mr. Trąba grew gentle and glanced thankfully to the heavens. Father continued filling glasses with juniper berry vodka in the fever of his robotic motions.

“Basically,” Mr. Trąba now continued in a conciliatory and almost amicable tone, “basically, it’s not a question of whether you deny it or not, Commandant. Don’t be angry, but, putting it in other terms, whether you had denied it or not — this is a trifle. Too many ties, ties of another sort, link us. As you correctly say, we are old friends, and I wouldn’t be wrong if I said that a step here, a move there, one gesture and you would join the conspiracy.” Mr. Trąba lifted up his hand and, without superfluous words, stilled the Commandant’s silent and, to tell the truth, none-too-distinct resistance. “Yes, you would join us, but that’s not the issue, nor is it a question of your Jewishness or of your Communism: don’t be angry, but, to tell the truth, those Jews and those Communists were quite different from you, Commandant. It is a question of general, as well as universal, truths. Of what Jews sensu largo are up to, and just what Jews they are!”

Mr. Trąba suddenly began to search his pockets, and after a moment he extracted a carefully folded newspaper clipping from his shirt pocket; straightened it out; nailed it to the table, which was covered with sky-blue oilcloth, with his index finger; bent over it; and began to read distinctly: “The world renowned violinist Yehudi Menuhin, during his tournée of Israel, paid a visit to Prime Minister Ben Gurion. In the course of an informal conversation, both the artist and the politician stood on their heads, since both practice yoga. .” Mr. Trąba panted hard, and apoplectic spots covered his face and neck.

“Chief, Commandant, gentlemen. A Christian cannot stand indifferent in the face of such things. Yoga, yes, OK, it can lead to salvation, but among the Mosaic prophets there isn’t a peep about yoga.” Mr. Trąba fell silent for a moment, and then he suddenly bellowed with a terrifying voice: “Convert them! Evangelize them! Show them the road to salvation!”

“Proselytism,” Commandant Jeremiah growled scornfully. “Common proselytism.”

“What proselytism, Commandant, what proselytism!” Mr. Trąba said with unexpected calm. “I swear on my nine prewar semesters of theology that there isn’t any question of proselytism here. It’s a question of the Biblical plan of salvation. If David Ben Gurion, who came fifteen years ago to stand at the head of the state of Israel, now stands on his head, this means one thing: a flaw has arisen in the Biblical plan of salvation, and we Christians, and especially we Lutherans, must hurry to the rescue.”

Mother placed the steaming tureen on the table and removed plates, knives, and forks from the cupboard. Sitting next to me, Commandant Jeremiah — in whose breathing, agitated gestures, and nervous huffing and puffing I sensed the firm desire for immediate departure — suddenly capitulated and cheered up. Father raised an empty vodka glass. It looked as if he wished to perform a pantomime entitled “The Flight of the Vodka Glass to the Light,” but the Commandant interrupted the performance with an imperial gesture, put the date book, which was still lying on the table before him, away in his pocket, and pointed to the sacred place on the oilcloth where the vessel, already taken down from the heights, but still shot through with spherical radiance, ought to stand. And it came to pass: Father placed the vodka glass before Commandant Jeremiah and filled it.

“If a miracle should happen, if the heavens should open up,” Mr. Trąba declaimed, “and if the Lord of Hosts should look upon my downfall and ask: ‘What can I do for you, Józef Trąba?’ If that should happen, with my certain death as my witness, I would say: ‘Lord, raise up my friend Jakub Lełlich from the dead, fashion him back again from the clay into which he has been transformed, breath life into him, and cause that we could at least once more have a chat about the superiority of the Jewish-Lutheran alliance to all other alliances.’”

Mr. Trąba chattered away indefatigably, but neither Mother, nor Father, nor Commandant Jeremiah paid much attention to him. They must have heard this story too, like the majority of his stories, many times over, but the great ideas of the Biblical plan of salvation were reaching my consciousness for the first time.

“It is irrefutable, irrefutable, that the rise of Israel was the fulfillment of the prophecy of Zachariah and other prophecies. The Lord of Hosts foretold two-and-a-half-thousand years ago that he would deliver his people and lead them to Jerusalem. And this came to pass, and it must be so until the very. . the very conversion itself.”

Mr. Trąba broke off for a moment, swallowed a significant piece of potato pancake, which had been amply sopped in sour cream, and continued, with a zeal that proved he had reached the very heart of his argument:

“This will come to pass, but it’s not the pagan path of yogists that leads here, rather the path of Jewish orthodoxy. Jews came to Jerusalem not in order to stand on their heads there, but in order to be confirmed in their Judaism. After all, only Jews confirmed in their Judaism can attain salvation. As the Scripture says: ‘For an Israelite to become a Christian, he must first eat his fill of his Israelitism.’”

“There isn’t anything like that in Scripture,” Commandant Jeremiah wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Nowhere is it so written.”