Stone Upon Stone Read online

“That’s not gonna happen. Now if we all went out, maybe we could block their way.”

  “What are they, water, that we have to block their way? What we should do is take our scythes and pitchforks to them! With them folks that’s always the only way!”

  “Or throw rocks at their windshields!”

  Anger swept along the line of wagons. Even Kuś got carried away and shouted:

  “A cross is what you need! Across would stop them! No one can stand up to the cross. Nip over to the church, you know! It’s a hop and a skip. Bring a cross and go out on the road with it! The priest won’t mind. Tell him we can’t get over the road with our wagons.”

  “That’s bullshit! A cross? You might as well just spit on the ground in front of them.”

  “Don’t you blaspheme now! The cross is bullshit?” His voice even got hoarse. “You’ll be begging at that cross yet, damn you. Why do you think people put crosses and chapels and shrines by the roadside? So nothing bad will happen when you’re walking or driving there. Or at a crossroads? So you’ll know which way to go when you’re lost! You know, one time in the first war we were marching down a road just like this one. We were soldiers, not civilians. And it was a whole lot narrower. There was no blacktop back in those days, just dirt. From the other direction there was a funeral procession with the cross at the front. We’d barely heard them saying the ‘Eternal Rest’ when our CO gives the order, Don’t kick up dust! Pick your feet up high!”

  At that moment Stach Brożyna, who’d been standing taking a piss by his load, ran up to Kuś’s wagon, buttoning himself up as he came.

  “You’re talking crap! Goddammit!” And just like that he lashed out once and twice at Kuś’s mare. “It’s because of you, it’s because of you we’re waiting here! Gee up! Gee up!”

  The mare took the strain and jerked forward. Kuś pulled back on the reins with all his might till the animal’s head twisted, and he didn’t let go.

  “Whoa! Stop! What fault is it of hers, you son of a bitch!”

  Stach was in a rage, he took the whip in his right hand and struck out at the mare’s back and sides and legs.

  “Giddyup! Giddyup! Come on now, move!”

  From the beating she probably would have moved out in front of the cars, there was nothing else she could do, but Kuś lay down flat on the sheaves and wouldn’t let go of the reins, holding on with all the strength in his old body. The mare tossed her pulled-back head, pressed against the shaft, shifted left and right, and in the end she squatted with her hindquarters on the ground, but she didn’t move.

  “Leave her alone, Stach!” I shouted.

  But it was like Stach had gone crazy. His cap fell off. His shirt came out of his pants. And he kept hitting. Suddenly the mare lurched sideways and something cracked in the reach. The shaft rose upward and it looked as if the wagon would tip over.

  I jumped down off my sheaves, grabbed Stach by the shoulders and forced him back into the field. He twisted clear and hit me on the head with the whip. He tried to do it a second time but I dodged out of the way, then I grabbed him by the throat. His eyes almost popped out, his tongue poked out, he fell to his knees. The guys on the wagons were shouting:

  “Christ, he’s gonna strangle him! Let him go! Szymek!” When I freed him he was gasping for breath.

  “Don’t you raise your hand again!” I said to him. “The next time I won’t let go.”

  Kuś came down off his sheaves, straightened the shaft, straightened the harness on the horse, patted her and stroked her and mumbled like he was talking to himself:

  “How could he have beat her. Honestly, how could he have beat her. Her skin’s all trembling. And for what? For what? Come on now, stop shaking.”

  “Bartłomiej,” I said, “get back up there and stop fussing with your horse. We’re gonna have to be going, we’ll miss our chance again. We’ve been waiting here long enough already.”

  “How do you know, maybe the Lord put us here and he’s making us wait as a punishment. And the cars just keep coming. You know, there’s no point hurrying. It’s Sunday. Either way we’re sinning against God with every wagonload. The fewer loads, the fewer sins. The seventh day shall be a day of rest, that’s what it says. And it was God that said it, not people. And he reckons everything up, he does. If not on his own, then through his reckoners. And they’re just as careful as human ones. Pity I didn’t bring her feed bag. She could have had a bite to eat the while.”

  He started clambering back up onto his sheaves. It wasn’t easy.

  “Shall I get down and help you?” I said.

  “Why would I need your help. You’re no spring chicken yourself. Time was I could shimmy up a poplar tree in the twinkling of an eye. And without anyone’s help.”

  In the end he managed to climb up there. He got settled, took his whip and reins in hand.

  “See, I could climb a tree even now.”

  “Just keep your eyes open,” I said.

  “That’s all I am doing.”

  The men had quieted down on their wagons again. Nobody even felt like cursing, all you could hear was the cars roaring past, screeching and honking, then from time to time one of the horses would give a snort.

  “Why so quiet, Bartłomiej?” I said, because everything seemed too silent to me. All those furious wagons and no one saying a word.

  “You told me to watch out so I’m watching out. Where are they all driving to, damn them? Are they running away or something? From what? They can’t drive forever, though. They’ll get sick of driving before we get sick of waiting. Sure, not waiting would be better than waiting. But getting mad won’t do any good either. Think of all the things people have to put up with that are worse than waiting. Sometimes they think they can’t take it anymore. But they do. And you can never say they couldn’t take anything worse. Because in this world there’s no limit to how much worse things can get. And all people have is patience. So they have to just wait it all out. They’re like trees, just standing there, for years, for centuries. Wherever they were planted or wherever the wind sowed them. They don’t choose their place, they just stand there from the moment they’re born. Oaks stand the longest of all the trees. Poplars the shortest. Poplars are crap trees. You can’t even make a scythe handle out of their wood. But oak is like rock, you know. You can use it for anything. A doorstep, a wheel hub, a barrel, a cross, whatever you like. And all because it doesn’t get angry, it doesn’t curse, it just stands there. There are times when shouting won’t do you any good, nor tears, nor mowing. Neither God nor people will help you, only that patience of yours. And even when your time comes to die, it won’t seem so terrible, because you know, death is patience too. So we’ll outwait them, we will. We’ve out-waited all kinds of things with nothing but our patience to help us.”

  I wasn’t thinking what I was doing. It was like someone had jabbed me in the side with a knife. I jumped down off my load.

  “Back up, boys!” I shouted. “I’m going out there!”

  There was alarm among the wagons.

  “Are you nuts, Szymek?!”

  “What’s gotten into you now?”

  “You’ll never make it across!”

  “There’s one car after another!”

  “Think what you’re doing, for heaven’s sake!”

  I straightened the traces and bridle, patted the horse on the neck, checked the straps. I didn’t feel upset, I wasn’t mad at anyone.

  “Szymek, for the love of God!” Kuś leaned down all the way from his load. “I ought to be the one to go, you know. I’m the first in line. I’m only a few steps from death anyway. And my mare’s ready to die as well.”

  I took the whip and reins in hand, but I could see the farmers standing there like the cat had their tongues.

  “Come on, back up! Otherwise I won’t be able to get out from behind Kuś!”

  And all of a sudden it was like the fear got into them, one after another they started backing up, pulling their horses’ heads up, snapping thei
r whips, shouting, “Whoa, back up!” The reaches and axles creaked and goddammits were flying, because reversing a loaded wagon is no easy task.

  I jerked back, pulled the horse to the right, and first of all drove into the field. Then, as I passed Kuś’s wagon I tightened the reins and it was giddyup! toward the road.

  “Dear God, he’s going to kill himself! Stop! Wait up! Szymek!”

  Kuś’s hoarse voice rang out through the air:

  “Cross yourself at least!”

  I leaned my shoulder against the wagon. The whip was burning my hand. The horse was trotting along at a decent pace, maybe he sensed what he was up against. The front of the shaft was almost at the road when suddenly he hesitated and tossed his head. That part happened to be uphill. I flicked the whip across his back and legs. His whole body tensed, all the way to his hind hooves that were steadied against the ground. Gee up! Gee up! He was already coming out in front of the moving cars. Then the wagon sort of jerked him backwards, or maybe he just got scared of the cars. I braced my shoulder with all my strength against the load and took the whip to his legs once and twice again, till the horse arched. He moved forward. His front hooves were already clopping on the blacktop. The front wheels were on it too. I leaned back and whipped him again, like I was knocking the cars away from in front of him. By now my legs were coming out onto the road as well.

  All of a sudden something flashed in front of my eyes. There was a terrifying honking sound right close by. I heard the squeal of tires. There was a crash and I came down like a felled tree. To begin with I couldn’t see a thing, like a fog had fallen all around me, I couldn’t feel anything either, I only heard voices and shouts somewhere far away. Then the fog began to slowly clear, and nearby to my left I saw a big hole, and in the hole a light-colored head covered in blood and looking like it was sleeping. I tried to get up. But it was as if I didn’t have a body, all I had was my will. Right in front of me on the blacktop my legs were lying all twisted like tree roots, and they were covered in blood. It seemed like my blood was flowing out of them, spilling far and wide. Though they weren’t hurting. I had the vague feeling they mustn’t have been my legs after all. And the whip I was holding in my right hand also didn’t seem to be mine, or the hand itself. Where could a whip have come from? I couldn’t for the life of me remember what I’d needed it for. It was like I was dreaming it all. It was only the road I knew was real, because I could see there weren’t any acacias growing alongside it anymore.

  People were gathering around me. I couldn’t figure out why. They were shouting, their heads were bobbing like turkeys’ heads, they were waving their arms about. There were more and more of them. They shouted louder and louder, waved their arms faster and faster, and all of them were staring at me like crazy. Someone kicked my legs as they lay there on the blacktop. But it didn’t hurt at all. Someone else leaned over me, he was wearing a checkered shirt and he had eyes like a fish.

  “He’s alive,” I heard him say, his voice was so loud it felt like it was boring into my ears.

  He started to tug at my shoulders. And he must have woken me from my dream, because I saw I was sitting hunched over among the sheaves, and the people standing over me were real. Right next to me stood my horse, tangled in the traces, the shaft forcing his head all the way up to the sky.

  “See, peasant like him, still alive.”

  At that moment I felt it was my hand holding the whip, and I sensed a huge furious force gathering in that whip. I started lashing out blindly at all those screaming faces, and eyes, and shirts.

  “You bastards!” I felt I was shouting at the whole world, though the sound might not even have passed my throat. Because the fog covered everything back up. As if I didn’t have a body again. Someone pulled the whip from my hand. Then when the fog rose again a moment later, I saw Kuś kneeling over me.

  “You’re alive. Thank the Lord, you’re alive.”

  I decided to write a letter to Antek and Stasiek about the tomb. I went to the co-op, I bought paper and ink and a penholder and a nib. Because when was the last time I wrote anyone a letter? I don’t even remember. No one in the house went to school anymore so those things weren’t needed. All we had was an old dried-up inkpot lying around from back when mother was still alive and she still wrote to them. I never wrote after they left home, even though they were my brothers. And they never wrote to me. It just worked out that way. They were in the city and I was in the village. They had their lives, I had mine. What was there to write about? Was I supposed to tell them what was happening in the village, when they maybe weren’t that interested in remembering the village anymore? What was the point of forcing myself on someone else’s life, even if it was my brothers’? Besides, one or other of them would swing by for a visit every two or three years so we more or less knew what was going on with them. One of them traveled abroad, one of them bought a car. One of them got an apartment, three rooms and a kitchen, the other one split up with his wife and got married again. One has a daughter and a son, the other one only a son, but he’s not that interested in school. As for my news, well, when mother died I sent them a telegram: “Mother died. Come.” Then, a few years later another one: “Father died. Come.” That was all my news. Though even if there’d been more, would they have wanted to know?

  While mother was alive she’d always have to write a few words to them every Christmas. And each time it was the name day of Saint Stanislaus or Saint Anthony. And sometimes when she’d suddenly miss them or when she had a dream about one of them. When the flour was bolted she’d send them a packet, and a letter to go with it. Then they’d write a thank-you for the flour and send their regards to everyone at home, “and Szymek as well.” That was enough. I mean, we didn’t stop being brothers.

  But a tomb is a tomb, you only build one in your whole lifetime, so I had to ask them if they wanted to be buried with everyone else, because I’d planned eight places so there’d be room for them as well. Or maybe they’d rather be buried there, where they live – that way I wouldn’t have to spend more money unnecessarily, I’d have a smaller tomb built. Of course, I hope they live as long and as happily as possible, but sooner or later they have to die, because all of us that are alive are going to die. And please answer right away, because I’ve paid for the plot and gotten the cement, and I’m all set with Chmiel. They probably remember Chmiel, he built tombs even before the war, half the tombs in our cemetery are his work. He’ll make us a solid, comfortable tomb. I just have to let him know that my brothers agree.

  I spent the whole evening on that letter. Not that I said a whole lot. The entire thing came out to less than one page. But I wanted to write something more than just about the tomb. I was embarrassed that it was the first letter I’d written to them in all those years, and it started with “Dear Brothers,” and the paper wasn’t that big, plus it was folded in two and not even written on to the end. But I couldn’t think of anything else to say. I thought and thought, I even had a drink. That reminded me I hadn’t milked the cows. I lit the lamp, took the pail, and even in the shed, as the milk was squirting between my fingers, I was thinking what else I could write to them about. But I couldn’t even make it to the end of the page, so the Love and the God bless, Szymek would at least fall on the next side. After a whole room’s worth of thinking there was no more than a handful of words. I guess I could have written how much the tomb was going to cost me, the plot and the materials and the labor. But I thought, they’d only get offended and write back that they just want to be buried in the city.

  It was like I was writing an official letter, not to my own brothers. And when you’re writing an official letter you don’t just have to be careful not to say anything against yourself, you also need to make sure the words all agree with each other, that they’re not making nonsense of each other, because otherwise you’ll have the whole office laughing at you. And it shouldn’t be too long, because who’s going to read a long letter. I worked in the district administration and I kn
ow. You’d read the beginning and the end, but the whole middle was like it was written to God alone. Though the middle often contained the most pain.

  On top of that, one of them’s got a degree and the other one’s an engineer, and I couldn’t just write the way you talk. Out here no one pays any attention to how they talk and they don’t talk that much anyway, because on a farm work comes before words. Plus, truth be told, who is there to talk to? The plow, the scythe, the pitchfork, the hoe, the field, the meadow? If I have a real strong urge to talk I can talk to the horse or to God, but most of the time I just talk to myself in my own thoughts. And in the evening at home, after work, sometimes to Michał. Though talking to Michał is like talking to your horse or to God, or to yourself in your own thoughts. I ask him, so how are things, did you go anywhere in the village today, or, did you eat the dumplings I left for you, or, did anyone come by today? As usual he doesn’t answer, and that’s it for the day. Some days I don’t feel like saying even that much, I’m fit to drop and I just want to go straight to bed.

  Though there isn’t always work. In the fall, sometimes it rains and rains, there’s no way you can go out into the fields, or to the village, and it’d be the perfect moment to talk like brothers, not just, When is this rain ever going to let up. But I don’t want to ask him anymore questions. Because the most he’ll do is raise his eyes at you, and there’s no telling whether he’s heard you or not. And often those eyes look as if they’ve gone far, far away from him. What would be the point of asking him anything else. Though sometimes I feel sorry for him, he’s my brother after all, and at those times I want to at least ask him, Michał, tell me, who hurt you? But even if he told me, it wouldn’t help either of us. So maybe it’s better I don’t know.

  It was the same when I was writing the letter, I wanted to ask him, shall I say hello to Antek and Stasiek from you? But I didn’t ask, I just wrote, Michał says hello as well.

  The next evening I took the letter over to the Kuśmiereks’ next door. Their Rysiek goes to technical school in the town, I thought it’d be good for someone young to read it through. Maybe there are different ways of writing these days, or maybe I’d made some mistakes, even though they’re my brothers I didn’t want them laughing at me.