“amen” died out, she hurried out of the church and into the hot sunlight, heading home without looking back. When she passed church gate she sped up and began to run.
A couple of aunts and uncles were invited to have dinner together at their flat after the ceremony. About ten people. Not that many, but Sabina had been hysterical for a week. So Hanka was in a hurry. She had to heat the broth and the stew. To lighten her mother’s workload. To help somehow.
She managed to check if everything was on the table and to put the sticky pasta onto plates before the adults arrived. They’d walked slowly, as if they were still in a solemn mood. They spoke in low voices. Bartek was asleep. Hanka carried him to her room—now their room—and closed the door. She hoped he would sleep as long as possible, so he wouldn’t disturb things. She had work to do. And she was starving.
The solemn mood disappeared as soon as the guests finished eating and drank their first round. The adults laughed loudly at foolish jokes, which Hanka didn’t understand, and which irritated her.
If they wake Bartek there’ll be trouble!
Sabina poured the vodka generously. The sight gave Hanka the shivers. Oily vodka oozed reluctantly into drool-smeared glasses and then disappeared in greedy mouths. Under a moustache covered with sauce from the roast. Between lips covered in lipstick. Gross.
Hanka observed the guests from the entrance hall. Nice, friendly uncles turned into sweaty pigs, their shirts unbuttoned down to their belly buttons and circles of sweat under their arms. Pretty aunts turned into randy flirts. They lost their shoes, took their jackets off. They sang, each one of them choosing a different melody. Amongst them, Sabina was excited, squeaking like a rubber toy. Salads dried out, coated with mayonnaise that slowly went bad. Her father was almost invisible. He couldn’t calm them down. She sighed heavily and escaped to her room.
Bartek was still sleeping. He seemed almost not to breathe, as usual. Hanka sat down on the floor and tried to play or read a book, but the screams of drunken guests disturbed her. She couldn’t concentrate at all. In the end, after yet another burst of laughter, she got up and covered Bartek’s ears with a rolled up blanket. Let him sleep so there could be peace.
Unexpectedly, when she drew back from the pram, her baby brother woke up. Before he even opened his eyes, he started crying. Loudly, as usual. Hanka knew that the only person she could count on was herself, not her aunts and not Sabina. She decided to give Bartek a pacifier—her mother called it a “plug.” But it had disappeared somewhere. It had most probably fallen out of the pram when they were coming back from church. Or someplace else. Dammit.
But Hanka was lucky! On a shelf—quite high up, almost at the ceiling—lay another plug, still unopened. It should satisfy Bartek, and Hanka had completely forgotten about it! She stood on her toes and tried to reach it, but couldn’t. It was too high. She took her dusty socks off and started climbing up the shelves as if they were a ladder. Two levels seemed like just enough. One of Hanka’s hands gripped the highest shelf, and the other reached for the box with the plug.
She almost had it when her traitorous, sweaty left hand, which was usually strong and reliable, slid down the white French polish. Hanka hung for a second, then tumbled down to the floor, straight onto a scattering of angular building blocks. During the short drop she somehow turned to one side, then hit her head. She felt one of the blue blocks split her skin. Warmth. A daze. She sat up with difficulty and touched spot, which was radiating pain. Wet. Red. Hair glued together. Too bad. Hanka could barely hear Bartek screaming. She covered the wound on the head with a finger, then waited until the big wheel that was whirling within her head stopped.
She came into the living room reeling. The drunk figures before her looked
A couple of aunts and uncles were invited to have dinner together at their flat after the ceremony. About ten people. Not that many, but Sabina had been hysterical for a week. So Hanka was in a hurry. She had to heat the broth and the stew. To lighten her mother’s workload. To help somehow.
She managed to check if everything was on the table and to put the sticky pasta onto plates before the adults arrived. They’d walked slowly, as if they were still in a solemn mood. They spoke in low voices. Bartek was asleep. Hanka carried him to her room—now their room—and closed the door. She hoped he would sleep as long as possible, so he wouldn’t disturb things. She had work to do. And she was starving.
The solemn mood disappeared as soon as the guests finished eating and drank their first round. The adults laughed loudly at foolish jokes, which Hanka didn’t understand, and which irritated her.
If they wake Bartek there’ll be trouble!
Sabina poured the vodka generously. The sight gave Hanka the shivers. Oily vodka oozed reluctantly into drool-smeared glasses and then disappeared in greedy mouths. Under a moustache covered with sauce from the roast. Between lips covered in lipstick. Gross.
Hanka observed the guests from the entrance hall. Nice, friendly uncles turned into sweaty pigs, their shirts unbuttoned down to their belly buttons and circles of sweat under their arms. Pretty aunts turned into randy flirts. They lost their shoes, took their jackets off. They sang, each one of them choosing a different melody. Amongst them, Sabina was excited, squeaking like a rubber toy. Salads dried out, coated with mayonnaise that slowly went bad. Her father was almost invisible. He couldn’t calm them down. She sighed heavily and escaped to her room.
Bartek was still sleeping. He seemed almost not to breathe, as usual. Hanka sat down on the floor and tried to play or read a book, but the screams of drunken guests disturbed her. She couldn’t concentrate at all. In the end, after yet another burst of laughter, she got up and covered Bartek’s ears with a rolled up blanket. Let him sleep so there could be peace.
Unexpectedly, when she drew back from the pram, her baby brother woke up. Before he even opened his eyes, he started crying. Loudly, as usual. Hanka knew that the only person she could count on was herself, not her aunts and not Sabina. She decided to give Bartek a pacifier—her mother called it a “plug.” But it had disappeared somewhere. It had most probably fallen out of the pram when they were coming back from church. Or someplace else. Dammit.
But Hanka was lucky! On a shelf—quite high up, almost at the ceiling—lay another plug, still unopened. It should satisfy Bartek, and Hanka had completely forgotten about it! She stood on her toes and tried to reach it, but couldn’t. It was too high. She took her dusty socks off and started climbing up the shelves as if they were a ladder. Two levels seemed like just enough. One of Hanka’s hands gripped the highest shelf, and the other reached for the box with the plug.
She almost had it when her traitorous, sweaty left hand, which was usually strong and reliable, slid down the white French polish. Hanka hung for a second, then tumbled down to the floor, straight onto a scattering of angular building blocks. During the short drop she somehow turned to one side, then hit her head. She felt one of the blue blocks split her skin. Warmth. A daze. She sat up with difficulty and touched spot, which was radiating pain. Wet. Red. Hair glued together. Too bad. Hanka could barely hear Bartek screaming. She covered the wound on the head with a finger, then waited until the big wheel that was whirling within her head stopped.
She came into the living room reeling. The drunk figures before her looked
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