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Holy Week. Jerzy Andrzejewski
Читать онлайн.Название Holy Week
Год выпуска 0
isbn 9780821442203
Автор произведения Jerzy Andrzejewski
Серия Polish and Polish-American Studies Series
Издательство Ingram
Abruptly she began bustling about the kitchen, shifting around dented pots and saucepans. There was no fire burning in the stove, and the cold was even more penetrating in the basement than outside. The sun certainly never shone here.
Malecki glanced at Irena. She had completely returned to normal, although she was a bit paler than usual. She sat rigid and attentive, unnaturally straight, her dark eyes examining the woman attentively but with an evident lack of goodwill. The woman, for her part, finally stopped rearranging things, turned, and went up to her son.
“Enough peeling, Kaziczek,” she said gently. “That’ll do for today.”
At that moment the shrill, hoarse shout of one of the soldiers rang out from in front of the gate. The young man started, moved away from the window, and instinctively shrank into himself. For a moment, his red eyes passed across Malecki and Irena with an apprehensive squint. Only when he saw his mother did he calm down somewhat. He continued standing alone, lurking in the corner and gazing uncertainly at the strangers in the room.
“Let’s go!” Malecki leaned over to Irena. She stood up with some effort and thanked the woman, indifferently and with a trace of contempt, for her hospitality.
This cut Malecki to the quick.
“Irena!” he said, his voice rising with reproach, “How can you speak to these unfortunate people in that tone of voice?”
She glanced at him with the same derisive coldness as at the beginning of their encounter.
“So you don’t like my tone of voice?”
“No.”
The hardness in his own voice did not disconcert her at all.
“Too bad. That’s the tone I seem to have.”
“But Irena!”
“What are you so surprised at?” she asked, cutting him off irritatedly. “That woman is not the unhappiest person in the world. She doesn’t have to die from the fear that at any moment they can shoot her sons just because they are who they are. She at least has them, you understand? She can go on living. And us?”
“Us?” He didn’t understand at first.
“Us Jews!” she answered.
At that moment, the sound of a machine gun sounded very close to them. The cannon continued firing from the far gate.
“You didn’t used to say ‘us,’” Malecki said at last, speaking softly.
“No, I didn’t, but I have been taught. By all of you.”
“By us?”
“By you, Poles, Germans …”
“So you’re lumping us together?”
“You’re all Aryans!”
“Irena!”
“You taught me that. I only recently came to understand that everyone in the world has always hated us and still does.”
“You’re exaggerating!” he murmured.
“Not at all! And even if they don’t hate us, at best they barely tolerate us. Don’t tell me we have friends, because it just seems that way. In reality no one likes us. Even when you help us, it’s different than when you help other people …”
“Different?”
“You have to force yourself to assume a posture of generosity and sympathy, of whatever is good, humane, and just. Oh, I assure you that if I could hate Jews as much as you do, then I wouldn’t say ‘us’ and ‘you.’ But I can’t feel like that and so I must be one of them, a Jew! For who else am I supposed to be, tell me that?”
“Yourself,” he replied, but without much conviction.
She said nothing at first. She bowed her head and stood that way for a long time, again tracing invisible signs on the ground with her parasol. Suddenly she lifted her beautiful, eastern eyes toward Malecki and said in the soft tone that formerly had so often sounded in her voice:
“I am myself. But Miss Lilien from Smug no longer exists. I was told to forget about her, so I did.”
A commotion arose at the gate. People were slipping out, taking advantage of the latest break in the shooting.
“Let’s go,” Malecki said.
The German sentry at the gate urged those exiting to hurry. In a moment Malecki and Irena found themselves on the street.
Irena did not know this part of town, so she stopped, disoriented. Malecki pulled her after him in the direction of Franciszkańska Street. A few passersby were stealing this way along the rows of tenements. Shots still could be heard, sparse and far off. An open army car slowly made its way down the center of the roadway. From its running board a young officer issued orders in a loud voice to the soldiers grouped around the carousel.
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