Stone Upon Stone Read online

  “Though for a plow with a deep share we’d need another horse, daddy,” Stasiek put in. “One horse wouldn’t be enough.”

  “That’s a good point.” Father’s eyes lit up with admiration for Stasiek. “Good you mentioned it, Stasiek. We could maybe borrow Kuśmierek’s. He could borrow ours afterward. Or we could help him out at harvesttime.”

  “I’m not helping with anyone else’s harvest!” Antek burst out. “Ours is work enough for me! I’m not gonna be someone else’s farmhand.”

  “Just the once,” said father good-naturedly. “It won’t do you any harm. No one’s going to lend us their horse for free. If you don’t want to mow you could help with the binding. We’re not always only going to have one horse. If we get two extra acres we should think about getting another horse as well. There’s plenty of people have less land and they’ve got two horses. We’d find the money.”

  “And where would we do that exactly?” asked mother, bridling up. “Our bedsheets are one patch on another and we can’t afford new. Antek needs a new jacket, his elbows are poking out. Stasiek’s shoes are falling apart. Plus, I’d rather have another cow than another horse. At least that way we’d have more milk.”

  “Another cow we can rear from a calf. A horse, we need to buy. We’ll never be able to work all that land with just the one. We won’t borrow any more – just this once. Do you know what it means to have two horses in farmwork?” Father was completely lost in his fantasies by now. “All you’ll need to do is crack the whip and they’ll be off! It’ll make no odds whether the plowshare’s deep or they’re going uphill. And when you bring in the crop you can stack three layers of sheaves in the wagon. Or on your way to market, you’ll pass everyone, leave them in a cloud of dust. When you get invited to a wedding, if you go there with two horses you’ll be like a proper lady. With one horse it’d be like going in clothes with holes in them. Because on the other side of the shaft it’s like there’s a hole there. Having two horses is like having two healthy arms. With one it’s like you’ve got one healthy arm and the other one’s withered, or you lost it in the war.”

  “Let’s buy a chestnut mare, daddy!” Stasiek shouted, all excited.

  “Shut up, you little twit!” Antek suddenly went for Stasiek. “Don’t listen to him, father. Everyone in the village has a chestnut mare. We should buy a stallion – a black one! A black stallion, that’s a proper horse.”

  “The thing is, son, a mare’s better for farmwork,” father explained to Antek. “More manageable. It won’t balk, however much you put on the wagon it’ll pull it. However tired it is. With a stallion, once it gets an idea in its head you can beat it dead, it’ll turn your wagon over but it won’t budge an inch. Plus, with a mare you can raise a foal.”

  “But a stallion would go like the devil, father. Especially a black one.” Antek had gotten all excited too. “You put the whip to him and he’d go like the wind. We could call him Lucifer.”

  “Jesus and Mary!” objected mother. “Calling a horse Lucifer! And our horse too. What are you thinking, Antek?”

  “A mare, dad!” Stasiek kept on. “We’d have a little foal.”

  “A stallion!” insisted Antek, he was all worked up. “Otherwise I won’t lift a finger! You can do the harvest and the potato lifting on your own. I’ll leave the village!”

  “A mare, dad.” Stasiek was almost in tears. But all of a sudden mother bursts out:

  “Have you all gone completely crazy? Mares and stallions! I have to scrimp and save just to buy salt and lamp oil, otherwise you’d all be sitting in the dark eating unsalted food. For goodness’ sake, I just brought you the last loaf of bread! We’re running out of flour! There’s barely any potatoes left! And you’re all set to call a horse Lucifer! For the love of God! That Lucifer must’ve gotten into you! Tell them, Szymek, you’re more sensible than that! Why aren’t you saying anything?”

  The reason I wasn’t saying anything was so father wouldn’t start in again about the mare I had when I was in the resistance. One time I’d made the mistake of boasting to him about it, and ever since then he wouldn’t let it go.

  “You should have brought it home! At least you’d have had something from all that soldiering.”

  I couldn’t convince him it wouldn’t have been any use for farmwork. Besides, the animal died on me, how was I supposed to bring it home?

  “Because you didn’t look after it properly, dammit. Why would you take a creature like that into the line of fire. As for farmwork, we could’ve trained it. To begin with she could be harnessed to an empty wagon. You’d have to wrap the shaft in rags so it wouldn’t rub against her. Or we could borrow the priest’s chaise. She could pull that for a bit. Then she could be harnessed along with our bay. He’s old, he wouldn’t let her get carried away. Then we’d harness her to the harrow so the work wouldn’t be too hard to begin with. If she bucked you’d give her a lash once or twice. And you’d see, after that she’d be just fine with the plow.”

  He’d have put anything to work on the farm. But the first time I got on her back I was afraid she’d collapse under me. Her legs were half as long again as your regular horse. Her muzzle was small and slim, and she had a long neck like a swan. When she walked, however rutted the road was, or whether she was walking over fields or tree roots or in the woods, you never felt anything except a slight swaying, like you were riding on a cloud, or on cushions in a fine carriage, or when a baby’s rocked by its mother in the cradle.

  They gave us the horse at one of the manor houses, along with a saddle and a sword, because they wanted to help out in the war but they didn’t have any sons, only daughters. And what can daughters do in a war? They dressed our wounds and washed our ragged clothes, they played the piano for us a bit, had a laugh with us, and then when we were leaving they ran out after us into the courtyard and started crying. I must admit it’s nice to be going away when someone’s weeping for you and waving a white handkerchief wet with tears, and you’re on horseback with a sword at your side. I felt like that uhlan from the picture on the firemen’s calendar. All that was missing was for me to say, Don’t cry, I’ll be back to marry you.

  The squire himself led the mare out and said:

  “I chose the best horse from my stables. Let it serve its country.”

  I looked at the mare and I had the feeling I’d seen her somewhere before. I went up to her and patted her on the face. She tossed her head and whinnied.

  “Easy there.” I took hold of her fetlock. It was no thicker than my wrist, and it rose straight all the way to the knee. I’d often dreamed of taking a ride on a horse like that, instead of it always being the horse pulling the wagon, pulling the plow, the harrow, the lister. The horse with its head bowed to the ground. The horse in its suffering. And the man standing over it with a whip.

  When I was a kid I’d sometimes take our bay down to the river to water him. I’d try to imagine I was riding a slim-legged steed fast as the wind, and I was galloping at breakneck speed through the village, across the fields, into the distance, so fast I could hardly breathe. But our bay was a long way from being swift as the wind. His legs were all cut up, his hooves were like millstones, his head hung down to the ground. And he would just plod along, because he was like any farmer’s horse, he took farmer’s steps and you couldn’t make him go any faster either with your whip or with your heels. As well, most of the time he was worked so hard all he thought about was eating his fill and flopping down. He probably reckoned splashing about in the river was just another scourge for horses.

  I often used to think and think about how at least one time I could turn him into a proper horse. Because maybe he used to be a proper horse once, before he came to work for us. You read in books about those kind of horses.

  One time father wasn’t at home, some neighbor had given him a ride to market in town. I whittled myself a lance out of a hazel stick. I stuffed a sack full of chaff and got the saddle ready. I made some spurs with wire from an old bucket handle
and fixed them to my heels with straps. I led the bay out of the stable, stood him by the wagon, and from the wagon, because I couldn’t have done it any other way, I put the saddle on his back, climbed on, and with one hand holding on to his mane, the other gripping my lance, I headed down to the village. First at a walk, like the horse wanted. A whole bunch of boys gathered, they followed behind me and started shouting and egging me on. Women, men, whoever happened to be on the road, they all stopped and stared like it was some kind of show.

  “That’s the Pietruszkas’ bay. I’d never have recognized it if it wasn’t for the crazy kid that’s riding him.”

  “Where are you off to, seeing a young lady maybe?”

  “Has he gone completely nuts or what?”

  “It was just last spring he fell out of a tree. They’ve got their hands full with that one, the Pietruszkas.”

  “Because they don’t smack their kids. You gotta smack them, otherwise they grow up bad.”

  “What the heck is that, are you the cavalry or what? Wait till your father comes back, he’ll give you cavalry, you little pip-squeak!”

  I was still riding at a walking pace, but in my mind the horse was stretched out like a blur he was going so fast, his hooves weren’t even touching the ground. We were hurtling above the village, and everyone down below was tiny as ants. They were shouting something or other and waving their hands. Let them. I was bursting with pride.

  “Come on now,” I whispered in the bay’s ear. “You show them.”

  And lightly at first, just to test, I jabbed his sides with the wire spurs. He seemed unsure whether to stop or carry on. No one had ever prodded him in the flanks like that before, how was he supposed to know what it meant. They’d always just use the whip on him. I poked him a bit harder, but he didn’t change his pace, he just kept plodding along. His head was drooping like it always did over the shaft, and it was all I could do to reach his mane. I kicked him again so at least it’d make him shiver. Nothing. By now the boys were helping me out with louder and louder shouts:

  “Faster, Szymek! Off you go! Charge! Hurrah!”

  All right, if you don’t want it that way we’ll try something else. I started pricking him in the belly with my lance. But all he did was flick his tail like he was waving off a bee, and he kept on walking. He probably thought it was just a bee stinging him, and he was strong as anything when it came to bees. Bees, cart, whip, plow – that was a horse’s life.

  “Come on now. Faster. People are watching us,” I began begging him. “I’ll give you oats afterward, on their own, without any chaff. You can eat as much as you want. Just jump at least a bit off the ground.” And I poked him again and again with my spurs. I could feel the spurs digging into my heels till they bled, like when your shoes are too tight on the way to church. But I prodded, prodded and begged in turn, because the embarrassment hurt ten times worse that the pain in my heels.

  The boys had already begun to lose faith in me when they saw my spurs weren’t working on the horse. They were still walking alongside but their shouts got quieter. They gave advice, they said I should sharpen the spurs maybe, or make some others out of thicker wire. Some of them offered to get the horse going with sticks.

  Some of the grown-ups watching were starting to laugh and make fun of me:

  “Stick a needle under his tail, make him run!”

  “Or pour vodka in his mouth, that’d do the trick!”

  “Don’t waste the vodka, drink it yourself! The best thing for the horse’d be cowbane – that’d make him fly!”

  “You have to spit in his ears or he won’t obey you!”

  “Stop jabbing him like that, you damn fool! His sides are bleeding! What’s the horse ever done to you!”

  All of a sudden the bay shook in an odd way, like it was coming from deep in his belly. He lifted his head, pricked up his ears, he even seemed brisker in the way he was walking. I thought he’d finally gotten it.

  “All right,” I whispered gently to him, and I gave him a soft nudge with the spurs. The horse suddenly kicked up his hindquarters so high that I was thrown forward from his back onto his neck. The moment his back legs dropped, he flung his front hooves high in the air and jerked his head. I grabbed on to his mane with both hands. My lance fell to the ground, and there was a burst of laughter from the road. The horse threw up its hindquarters again, higher even than the first time. I almost came tumbling down like I was falling out of a willow tree into the river. Luckily I managed to hold on to his neck. He lifted his front legs way off the ground again – he was nearly vertical this time. He opened his mouth, bared his teeth, and neighed like he was full of bottled-up rage that had been gathering for centuries, for all the peasants’ horses that had been as meek as him. The saddle slipped from under my backside, my feet with their spurs flew out to the sides, and for a second I hung there in the air, clinging to his neck alone. He dropped back down, but not for long. He turned around, dropped his rear almost to the ground, then jerked it upward again, higher still. And he neighed, even louder than before. I could feel his guts churning inside him. Blood and rage and pain – it was like a dam had broken. The people on the road were shouting. The horse was leaping upward yet again, his front legs were clawing at the air as if he was trying to climb even higher, it was like he was trying to tear off a piece of the sky with his teeth. He was running amok, tossing his rear and his head in turn, he hardly seemed to come down to earth at all.

  Suddenly, with a sort of furious tug he freed his neck from my grip and I fell to the ground like an apple falling from a tree. He kicked again to check I wasn’t still stuck to him like a burr. Then once and twice he spun in a wide circle, scaring all the people. He gave a great whinny of relief. And off he ran like a storm, leaving nothing but a cloud of dust.

  People ran up to me and started to help me up. I didn’t want their help. But I couldn’t straighten my back or turn my head to the side, and I could hardly see out of one eye. Plus, the spurs were covered in my blood and the horse’s. On top of that, Michał had somehow shown up, even though he’d not been there when I led the horse out of the stable because he and mother had gone to the fields to do some weeding. He stood over me and burst into tears, as if I wasn’t embarrassed enough as it was.

  “Szymuś, are you all right? Szymuś, are you all right?” he sniveled. He even kneeled by my feet and tried to untie the bloody spurs. I was so angry I almost kicked him.

  “Leave me alone. I’m fine. Stop blubbering.”

  Father came back from market and gave me a hiding and a good talking to, and it was only then we went off to the fields to look for the bay. He was feeding on someone’s clover near Boleszyce. When he saw us he neighed and ran a couple of fields farther off. Father told me to stay back and hide behind a field boundary, and he went to try and get close on his own. But whenever he came near, the horse rose up on his hind legs and kicked at father with his hooves. In the end we brought the wagon. We took the horse-collar and a full feed bag. It was only then he let himself be harnessed to the wagon.

  And so father probably imagined my chestnut mare would have been like the bay. I didn’t ride her for long. We got ambushed and she was hit by machine-gun fire in the legs. I had to finish her off with a shot to the head. We took the saddle off her. It was all decorated with brass studs. The stirrups looked like they were made of gold. And there was so much leather in it you could have resoled who knows how many pairs of shoes. It would have been a shame to leave it. I even thought about finding another chestnut mare for the saddle. We searched around in the villages. But all the horses there were in terrible shape, overworked and worn out. We might have found one at a manor house somewhere. But there didn’t happen to be any manor houses on our way.

  That saddle traveled with us almost the whole summer. Through the villages and woods and fields. No one knew what for. Everyone got sick of lugging it around. They had to be ordered. You carry it a bit. Now you. Now you. Now you take it off him. They cursed and complained
. The hell do we need this for, sir? I wish I knew. We should have just dumped the damn thing somewhere so someone would find it. But what if the wrong person found it? And so on. Sometimes I’d rest my head on it. Sometimes I’d sit on it and think for a bit. Because thinking’s different in a saddle like that than on a tree stump or on the grass. In the end a farmer came along the road and we threw the saddle in his wagon. Maybe you’ll find a use for it, if not now then after the war. In return, if we find ourselves in these parts again we’ll come by for some sour milk.

  Likewise, I never did much fighting with the sword. I mean, what can you do with a sword in the woods – cut branches? The squire had said his great-grandfather had thrashed the Turks with it. That may have been the truth, because whenever you wanted to take it out of its scabbard, one man would have to hold it between his knees while the other one pulled with all his strength to get it out, it was so rusty. Out of respect for the squire I wanted to at least cut one of the bastards’ heads off or chop off an arm, so the squire would have something to be pleased about, so he could say the sword had fought for its country during his lifetime as well. But they were always too far off and you could only reach them with bullets. I just took it out a couple of times so it could tell me about the Turks. But it was iron after all, and when you ask iron a question it doesn’t answer. Then once in a while I’d do the present arms with it when we were burying one of our own. But when the chestnut mare fell I wasn’t really able to keep walking with the sword, it kept rubbing against my boot. I thought to myself, maybe you were good against the Turks, but in this war you won’t be doing any cutting or slicing. If all I ever do is present arms when someone’s being buried, I’ll end up burying the lot of them. So I hung it on a tree in the woods. It could be dangling there to this day for all I know.