Read Online Stone Upon Stone by Wiesław Myśliwski - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Wiesław Myśliwski
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you can name it yourself.”
“You name it,” she said. “I want you to name it. I’ll call it whatever you decide.”
“Name it yourself. I gave it to you, it’s yours.”
“Please, give it a name.”
“What’s the big deal about naming a dog. You just call him the first thing that comes into your head.”
“All right, then he’ll be called Szymuś. Would you like that?”
“Don’t ask me, ask the dog. Makes no difference to me.”
“Szymuś, Szymuś.” She started cuddling it again, and blue tears flashed in her blue eyes. “It’s a pity I’m going to die soon.”
I moved up to the next grade, while she spent another six months dyingin the shade. The white angel on her tomb has gone gray now and the tomb itself is all rough like old thatch, but there’s no sign of any cracks. The gold’s worn off the inscription, but you can still read the letters as clear as in a schoolbook. “My home stands gaping empty now and drear, My sweetest Basia, since you went from here. Your mother.” What was she, no more than twelve, but when you read it you’d think the whole world had died. I asked Chmiel if he’d made it up or if someone else wrote it for him.
“Who could have made it up,” he said. “It just goes from one tomb to another.”
While on the tombs the Woźniaks built it’s always the same thing, born on such and such a date, died on such and such, rest in peace.
Or the tomb of the young squire. That’s from before the war also. Maybe even from before the schoolteacher’s Basia. He died in his automobile. He’d drive it around the villages and the fields, frightening people and animals, and the dust he kicked up! There were times when after he’d driven by there was a cloud hanging over the village half the day, and people would be gasping like they had the consumption. You had to close the windows in your house and shoo the chickens and geese off the road, and if anyone was heading out into the fields they’d turn back as fast as they could. Because the horses were afraid of it the worst. The moment they heard it droning in the distance they’d rear up. The farmers would have to climb down off the wagon and hold them by the bridle. With horses that were already skittish even that wouldn’t work, they’d break the shaft, snap the reins, then turn the wagon over and run away. Some people said it was a sign of a coming plague. On top of everything he’d be wearing a leather pilot’s cap, and with those big goggles on his eyes he looked like Lucifer himself. That was what they called him. Lucifer’s coming! Lucifer’s coming! Every soul on the road would run for their life. And the old people would cross themselves three times and spit behind them, get thee behind me, Satan.
So one evening the cows were coming back from the pasture. And as usual with cows in those days, the road was all theirs. Also, they’d eaten their fill so they were moving slow and sleepy, you couldn’t have gotten them to go faster even with a stick. They wouldn’t let so much as a wagon get past them, let alone an automobile. They weren’t like the cows these days, that walk along with their ears pricked up and their skin twitching the whole time. The minute they hear the slightest noise behind them or in front, they move to the side of the road of their own accord. They’ve even learned to walk on the left. But back in the day cows were the masters of the road. Except that the young squire thought he was master of everything. And instead of stopping and waiting till they went their way, he started honking his horn and flashing his lights, he didn’t even slow down. And the cows just moved even closer together. He smashed one of them to pieces and broke another one’s legs, and he ended up a corpse himself.
I moved my finger across the inscription. It was even as a ditch, first name and last name, and, died tragically, you could read it all, and in front of the last name Count. The manors didn’t
“You name it,” she said. “I want you to name it. I’ll call it whatever you decide.”
“Name it yourself. I gave it to you, it’s yours.”
“Please, give it a name.”
“What’s the big deal about naming a dog. You just call him the first thing that comes into your head.”
“All right, then he’ll be called Szymuś. Would you like that?”
“Don’t ask me, ask the dog. Makes no difference to me.”
“Szymuś, Szymuś.” She started cuddling it again, and blue tears flashed in her blue eyes. “It’s a pity I’m going to die soon.”
I moved up to the next grade, while she spent another six months dyingin the shade. The white angel on her tomb has gone gray now and the tomb itself is all rough like old thatch, but there’s no sign of any cracks. The gold’s worn off the inscription, but you can still read the letters as clear as in a schoolbook. “My home stands gaping empty now and drear, My sweetest Basia, since you went from here. Your mother.” What was she, no more than twelve, but when you read it you’d think the whole world had died. I asked Chmiel if he’d made it up or if someone else wrote it for him.
“Who could have made it up,” he said. “It just goes from one tomb to another.”
While on the tombs the Woźniaks built it’s always the same thing, born on such and such a date, died on such and such, rest in peace.
Or the tomb of the young squire. That’s from before the war also. Maybe even from before the schoolteacher’s Basia. He died in his automobile. He’d drive it around the villages and the fields, frightening people and animals, and the dust he kicked up! There were times when after he’d driven by there was a cloud hanging over the village half the day, and people would be gasping like they had the consumption. You had to close the windows in your house and shoo the chickens and geese off the road, and if anyone was heading out into the fields they’d turn back as fast as they could. Because the horses were afraid of it the worst. The moment they heard it droning in the distance they’d rear up. The farmers would have to climb down off the wagon and hold them by the bridle. With horses that were already skittish even that wouldn’t work, they’d break the shaft, snap the reins, then turn the wagon over and run away. Some people said it was a sign of a coming plague. On top of everything he’d be wearing a leather pilot’s cap, and with those big goggles on his eyes he looked like Lucifer himself. That was what they called him. Lucifer’s coming! Lucifer’s coming! Every soul on the road would run for their life. And the old people would cross themselves three times and spit behind them, get thee behind me, Satan.
So one evening the cows were coming back from the pasture. And as usual with cows in those days, the road was all theirs. Also, they’d eaten their fill so they were moving slow and sleepy, you couldn’t have gotten them to go faster even with a stick. They wouldn’t let so much as a wagon get past them, let alone an automobile. They weren’t like the cows these days, that walk along with their ears pricked up and their skin twitching the whole time. The minute they hear the slightest noise behind them or in front, they move to the side of the road of their own accord. They’ve even learned to walk on the left. But back in the day cows were the masters of the road. Except that the young squire thought he was master of everything. And instead of stopping and waiting till they went their way, he started honking his horn and flashing his lights, he didn’t even slow down. And the cows just moved even closer together. He smashed one of them to pieces and broke another one’s legs, and he ended up a corpse himself.
I moved my finger across the inscription. It was even as a ditch, first name and last name, and, died tragically, you could read it all, and in front of the last name Count. The manors didn’t
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