LITMIR.BIZ

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crushed by an evil whim of fate and forced to vegetate on Broad Street, of no use to either the old country or the new.

      “And those people . . . ,” he sighed, thinking of the “bread immigrants” who clustered along Broad Street. “Those people . . . God have mercy! Mistrustful, suspicious, hostile. Back in Poland, I knew the peasants. Knew the workers, too. They were my people. I could always talk with them. But here . . . They are so changed in America, it is as if they have come from another planet.”

      He was probably right. For if Błażej represented the peasants from the old country, Wieniawski—though citified and educated over some generations—had evolved from the same stock, with unsevered bonds of deep attachment to the soil that had nurtured them both.

      Both men had been washed up onto Broad Street by the waves of the bay. Błażej had accepted this philosophically, matter-of-factly, and had adapted himself and even grown fond of his new surroundings. But in Wieniawski there seethed an unending rebellion and bitterness. What would have become of him, though, were it not for Broad Street and his newly opened travel office, the Albatross?

      On a warm spring afternoon filled with sun and promise, Błażej walked along St. Agnes Street, thinking he’d maybe stop at the food market, buy a chicken, and cook a pot of chicken soup to last him a week. He stopped in front of the market, shaded his eyes against the sun, looked at Broad Street . . . and blinked. He thought his eyes were failing him. He took his glasses out of his breast pocket and looked again. On the left side of the street, just past the bank, near the Polish Home, he saw a man on a ladder, painting a sign. Twardowski forgot all about his chicken. He shuffled toward the ladder, tilted his head back, and tried to make out the letters the man was painting. Failing at that, he lowered his head and looked at the freshly washed store windows in front of him.

      “See that? . . .” he muttered.

      There was a bilingual sign in the windows:

      PACZKI DO POLSKI—PARCELS TO POLAND

      “How did that happen? When?” Błażej was annoyed. Just a while ago, it seemed, there had been a hardware store here. And now? He came up closer to the windows and tried to look inside, but he couldn’t see anything. Cautiously he opened the door a crack and took a look. Inside there were two men he didn’t know. One was talking on the phone, and the other was sitting at a desk, writing.

      “See that . . .” murmured Błażej again. He grew angry at this invasion.

      “When did they come here?” he wondered.

      He went on quickly to the Polish Home, pushed the door open, and hobbled along the dark corridor to the bar. He put his elbows on the counter. It had been a long time since he’d had his last beer here—the doctor had told him that he had not long to live and that drink could kill him—but they still knew him there and remembered his name.

      “Those guys . . . ,” he asked the barman, “Who are they?”

      “What guys?”

      “Over on Broad Street, in the hardware store.”

      “Some new people.” The barman made a face. “The man’s name is Wieniawski, or something like that.”

      “What’s he doing here?” pressed Błażej.

      “How would I know? I heard people say he writes letters, sends parcels to Poland.”

      “And if one came to him with a letter, would he read it? Can he read Polish?”

      “Go and ask yourself, if you want to know.”

      “Not me. I don’t trust that guy. Most likely all he wants is to line his pockets with other people’s dollars, that’s what.”

      For a full week Błażej circled around the store. He was upset. Were it not for the letter, he probably never would have gone inside. It was a letter from the old country, but not an ordinary one like those others that Błażej usually threw out unread, not very curious about their contents. This one was a registered letter. The mailman had brought it to Błażej and made him sign for it. The old man twirled it in his hand, considered it carefully, opened it, and tried to make out what was in it, but failed. He decided to go to the Polish Home and ask someone there to read the letter to him.

      Błażej had few friends. While he was still working, while he could stand a beer or two—he’d had friends galore. But lately, more and more friends had fallen away, and those who remained had grown lukewarm.

      “The beer’s on me,” Błażej called to the barman. “For anyone who can make out this letter.”

      Some came right over, bent their heads, passed the letter from hand to hand, and spelled out each word laboriously.

      “It’s some Gienia that is writing you, Twardowski,” they concluded.

      “Bolanowska?”

      “Yeah.”

      “That’s my late sister’s girl. Well? What’s she got to write about?”

      “In the first words of my letter I advise my beloved uncle that I am alive and in good health, which is also what I wish for him . . . .”

      “Stupid!” Błażej pounded the counter with his fist. “To waste all that money to write such foolishness! What else?”

      “She writes that the government wants to take your land away and that it’ll be necessary to go to court . . . .”

      “Damn them!” Błażej rose to his feet. It suddenly came to him that he still owned a piece of land in the old country, inherited after his father’s death. He never had given it a thought. Only now. That’s right . . . he owned a piece of land, and now they wanted to take it away from him.

      “What should I do?” He turned to the barman. “How can I save it?”

      The letter, now crumpled and beer-stained, passed again from hand to hand.

      “She writes she needs money to pay the lawyer.”

      “What can I do? What can I do?” whispered Błażej.

      He looked helplessly around the dim bar, but his thoughts were far away. The land. How was he to save it? What was he to do? There was only one thought in his mind: not to give up the land, not to let it go, to keep it.

      “Thieving sons of bitches, vooltures, they got at me even here, they want to take my land!”

      And there he was already, spread-eagled on that land, his long arms stretched out, nails dug deep in the loam, defending the land. He remembered how once, long ago, a man killed his neighbor because he had plowed over his path. Even kinship did not matter. For land, a man would crack his brother’s skull wide open. And those strangers aimed to take his land. His own land, his patrimony.

      “What should I do?” he moaned. “How can I save it?” He never stopped to think why or for whom he should be trying to save that piece of land that he had never wanted to see again, that surely he would never see again. He felt as if someone were tearing out his vitals, slicing his belly open, and murdering him. He was fighting for his very life—for land. His legs trembled, and his body felt clammy with sweat.

      “What should I do? Tell me what to do.”

      “Why don’t you try and talk to Wieniawski about it? Maybe he can help.”

      “Give me back my letter.”

      He smoothed out the sheets, folded the letter, slipped it into its envelope, and without further ado went to Wieniawski’s office to seek help.

      . . .

      Stefański the organist jumped up from behind his desk.

      “What’s the matter with you? Are you coming in or not? It must be a dozen times you’ve opened that door.”

      Hesitant, Błażej stood in the doorway, looking the place over.

      “I want to see the one who can

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