The National Treasure

by William P Wood

  He glanced up at the moon sliver hanging in the inky sky. Looks like the crosses nailed to the farmhouse walls. Means something. Poor Henryk this long ago morning said I’m a national treasure. Like a painting or a statue or a crown? No, he must have meant I’m the repository of some essence of who we are, what we believe ourselves to be, what we hope to be. The nation’s soul.

  Janusz drank more deeply. For the first time in his life he knew he was responsible not to himself, his desires and ambitions, his vanities and hopes, but to others. Two sleeping nearby, their lives in his hands. And his country, battered and bleeding by marauding invaders.

  Don’t go to sleep, Peszek commanded. Made perfect sense.

  Janusz found himself in a white-tiled surgical theatre. He was in his evening clothes, like he was guest conducting in Paris. He was not alone because in a part of the theatre hard to make out, a woodwind section played elegiacally. He walked over to chastise them for being too obtrusive. This was exactly the issue he had argued with Hindemith about or maybe it was Poulenc, the necessity for understated woodwinds in musique religieuse.

  Halfway to the woodwinds, Janusz turned to the two occupied tables. He went to them. Getting the woodwinds just right here mattered because he knew he was precisely what his father had wanted, a doctor-composer, a healer-magician. It was magic he controlled in the so-bright white sterile room. He also knew this particular surgical theatre. It was where Lidia lost their only child, the stillborn little girl and a grief swelled up in him that was almost unbearable.

  He moved his hands in obscure magical gestures over the bodies on the two tables. He might have been conducting. He could not redeem Lidia’s grief or restore their dead child. But he could raise up Jozef and young Dunin, who lay bullet-riddled on the tables regarding him with watchful, penetrating eyes, demanding and impatient.

  He recognised what the woodwinds were playing. It was his own Dies Irae from the very successful all-choral Missa Solemni. He spoke magical incantations over Jozef and Dunin while his music wound on. Unlike Mozart or Verdi or so many others, his Dies Irae did not thunder or threaten. The voices he wrote were gentle, awed and sad, very sad, and so soft as to be almost silent.

  The woodwinds here in the surgery were not the choral voices he had written. But, they were still sad and joined by a plaintive lone flute. I’m coming, my love, it seemed to say. Nothing will stop me.

  ‘Don’t sleep.’

  The Second Day

  Thirteen

  Disarrayed noises. Tortured gears. Squeals. Raw voices.

  He ignored them. He was somewhere much more pleasant.

  The first time he and Lidia made love was in the stone and log hostel halfway up the mountain trail they had been hiking. They had one of the few separate rooms because they lied to the manger that they were married. They had been seeing each other for a month and this was their first weekend away together. In the room, she undid her blonde hair, letting it fall around her face and shoulders. He was frantic over her and when she came, he heard that gasp, half joyous laugh he would anticipate and work for many times again.

  The last time they made love was at midnight under an aged lemon tree in the overgrown garden of the fat Italian Marchessa who commissioned his stillborn piano concerto because she imagined herself a concert performer. She had cheeks the size and colour of baked hams and was overly interested in Lidia. No wonder the concerto was stillborn with parentage like him and patronage like her.

  In between those two poles of their lives were fifteen years of hopes and mysteries, separation, and joining again and finally uncoupled, end of movement, end of piece. Or so it had seemed until the terrifying abbreviated phone call with her yesterday.

  Her family, he learned early in their relationship, was singular; her gregarious, backslapping father was a successful architect of grandiose business buildings and her brother, who died later of tuberculosis, became an architect of avant garde homes. So Lidia, who was dutiful unlike Janusz who spurned his father’s hopes, also trained as an architect, creating both business and home designs. She was a superb tennis player and remarkable swimmer, holding her district women’s record in the 50-metre backstroke. He remembered her amusement when she taught him how to swim, his hapless clumsy splashing first in the fetid chlorine sting of a municipal pool and then in the terrifying waves of the cold Atlantic. She was a very tolerant and masterful teacher and he relished the memory of the two of them swimming in the salty, early winter ocean under tin-coloured skies, their arms linked, bodies in sychronisation. Like a physical counterpoint melody, complimentary, perfect, inevitable. Or seeming so.

  One of the first times he and Lidia made love, she gently, perhaps not so gently, slapped him as she straddled him, his hands holding her buttocks. “Look at me,” she said, and it was a very firm order.

  “I am looking at you.”

  “You’re somewhere else,” she said, kissing him. “Come back and look at me.”

  “I’m hearing something. It’s very beautiful.” He intended this as a compliment because she had tripped the switch and made it possible.

  “You know what your name means?”

  “Janusz. After the first month in the year.”

  “No. Idiot. Janus. After the two-faced god who looks ahead and back,” Lidia sighed and closed her eyes. “I’m going to have to keep you facing in the right direction.”

  “Yours?” Playful but slightly concerned at the confining implications.

  “Well, you can wander away wherever you go sometimes. But, yes, mine most of the time.”

  He told her later that looking inward and outward at the same time was what every artist did, a composer for one. But when he considered it more, was it also that he looked at the past and the present all at once? Or was it the past and the future because the present was always so murky and opaque? Maybe he was like walleyed Peszek, another Janus without the name, just a pathetic physical deformity. Right now, Janusz remembered the clean, amazing smell of Lidia’s sweat. The reality of their closeness. Odd. Why that? Yet it was wonderful.

  Why had he thought of their stillborn daughter now after consigning her to limbo for these last few years? Unwritten music, unalive daughter, both fixed pylons in the river of his life and Lidia’s. The times they tried to have a child, at the outset, were spontaneous, carefree and only when the phantom child would not manifest itself, did they turn to rigorous timing and schedules. Lidia made the charts, calibrated dates on the calendar, regulated their meals and sleep, and their lovemaking became driven, different. That was her, seeing into the future, making it real.

  At the desolate climax of their hopes, he sat with Lidia in the noisy hospital ward, a flimsy curtain drawn halfway around her bed. She was damply pale, starkly contrasted to the brown-limbed woman who hiked mountains, rode bicycles for trackless miles, stayed up with him until dawn when he would begin working at dusk and then continue through the night, feeding him strong coffee and cigarettes while she measured and drew architectural dreams for her clients. Now her hand was loosely around his for a long while.

  “I don’t understand,” Lidia said, gripping him much harder. He caught the bewildered fury in her voice.

  “It happens. It’s something that has many explanations or none. It happens sometimes and it happened to us.”

  “No, Janusz, I have to understand. We tried so hard.”

  He laid his head next to hers. Perhaps he had an answer for her now because he did not have one that terrible late afternoon in the hospital ward.

  He was shaken, he was being shaken by Jozef, and he grouchily brushed the hand away. Go away, Joszef, stop shaking me. You’re dead.

  “Mr Rudzinksi, wake up, wake up,” Gabriela said as he opened his eyes and returned to the puzzling present. “Soldiers outside. They’re after soldiers who ran away.”

  Janusz snapped awake. Hunting deserters.

  Like Peszek.

  Fourteen

  Fifteen soldiers to be exact, too young, all di
rty, weary, bad-tempered, and scowling, climbing off a dirty, weary, battle-scored six-wheeled truck. They had a thin, lightly moustached captain, uniform splotched with dirt, cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth as he barked orders. And they all had rifles.

  First thing to do, Janusz grasped with abrupt clarity, re-arrange the décor. Create a transient reality. Just like one of the gaudy or distracting ballets he avoided working on – The Magical Mechanical Marionette, The Bronze Pig even, Good Lord, a capering King Lear! Ballet’s undue attention to décor was inevitably subtracted from the music, like standing around admiring the painting’s frame rather than the painting. I write music, you bastards, he thought, so pay attention it. But at least he picked up the rudiments of setting a scene.

  Garbriela was easily conscripted as his accomplice as soon as he shook off his unfortunate sleep. “Go back and tell them your father is coming out in a moment. He wants to greet them. He is so proud to have the brave soldiers of his country as his guests.”

  “My father?”

  “Well me. Your father for the performance. Now, go, quickly. I have a lot to do.”

  She nodded. She had put on a more suitable grey long dress and simple blue blouse, her hair stuffed under a cloth cap. Her heavy work shoes clumped hurriedly back down the hallway. A receptive child, he thought, jumping up. A resourceful child.

  Down the hallway to Peszek, still in bed, snoring heavily. Janusz silently and quickly shut the two windows, drew the curtains, the room becoming dim and close almost at once. Pesezk snorted. “What the fuck, professor?” he snarled. “You went to sleep didn’t you!” and he began cursing until Janusz cut him off, pulling the sweated-through blankets over him to cover half of his stubbled grey face.

  “Shut up. There are soldiers outside. They’re prowling around for deserters. They don’t look happy. So stay here, don’t say anything even if someone talks to you. Groan sometimes.”

  “Fuck. Fuck. We’ll tell them who you are. That’ll make the bastards sit up.”

  “I don’t have time to argue. I don’t want to tell them. You’re out of uniform. Two things will happen: either they believe me and take me with them, which I do not want, and shoot you; or they don’t believe me and shoot us both. Trust me, sergeant. Karol,” he said. “Just look very sick.” The scene direction would not be difficult, Janusz thought as he hurried out. Peszek did look much worse this morning than he had last night.

  Back to the sewing room, quick grab for appropriate wardrobe from the scraps lying around, stuffing his elegant if soiled suit under a bureau. He jammed on corduroy pants, too big by several sizes, thick linen shirt with holes, and a torn sleeved coat. No shave. Yes, this would work.

  Tripping downstairs in a rush. Gabriela was diverting the soldiers for a few moments. Janusz snatched the family photograph from the wall, stashing it behind a cupboard. Remember Gabriela’s name. Rybak. Rybak. Quick survey around the room, nothing obviously out of place. All right. Curtain up. Just like opening nights in Milan, when he always felt his guts were swarming up his neck. I’m a professional. I can do this.

  He stepped out. The dawn had just come, the air still pleasantly moist, the sun a little misty behind the thick pines. As he walked toward the captain, the soldiers paused in their bickering and complaining, alert like a wolf pack going on point, and their rifles all came up at him.

  “Good morning, sir, good morning, good morning. I’m Rybak, this is my farm,” Janusz said, a trifle self-critical of his maître d’ manner. “Welcome to you and your brave men. It’s an honour to greet you in these heroic days.”

  The captain perfunctorily waved his men down and the rifles lowered but their glares and angry scowls did not. Gabriela stood beside the captain. She squinted at Janusz. “Hello, Papa,” she said. The child had a sense of humour and timing, he thought.

  “I’m Captain Kluk,” the officer said, taking off his cap, wiping his prematurely balding head. His dirty uniform collar was open, his face sunburned. He shook Janusz’s hand. “We’re hunting stragglers and deserters. Shot five since yesterday. Has anyone been through here recently?”

  “No one, captain. My dear wife is departed, so it’s just me, my daughter Gabriela, and my cousin Oscar who’s sick in the house.” He was shocked by the captain’s summary killings, but he said the right thing. “Those swine deserved it.”

  “Heroic days,” repeated Captain Kluk, but he plainly didn’t mean it. “We’ll see about your cousin. First, show me the barn.”

  “I’d be glad to show it to you. The cows need to be milked about now.” Where had that reckless improvisation come from? He sighed with relief when Gabriela nodded slightly. They walked to the barn. Kluk brusquely gave orders.

  “Right. Sergeant, have the men check around the place. Do you have any food, Rybak? My men haven’t eaten for twenty-four hours. We’ve been fighting and on the move.”

  “I’m truly sorry. We have nothing. You’re welcome to anything, but as you can see, it’s gotten very bad.”

  “Think so? You haven’t seen what we have not far from here. Keep your daughter close, Rybak. Believe me.” For a young man, the captain looked and sounded very old and angry. “You mind if we help ourselves to some apples?”

  “Take as many as you and you men wish,” Janusz said.

  They made a quick tour of the barn. He noticed that the old generator had died sometime in the night, out of fuel. The captain watched as Gabriela briskly went about setting up and milking the cows. Janusz couldn’t resist playing the scene. He affectionately patted one sullen beast, cooing at it with the pet name Gabriela had told them last night. He was a little worried that the cow would snort or bellow or whatever angry cows did, but this one simply regarded him with one huge brown eye while Gabriela milked it. The captain complimented him on the mare and the foal. So far, so good, Janusz thought, nervously. Act One going nicely.

  After the barn, Captain Kluk insisted on an inspection of the house, which meant viewing Peszek in his sick bed. “What’s wrong with him?” Captain Kluk demanded as they stood in the doorway of the dim, feculent room.

  “I don’t know,” helpless shrug. “He’s been like this for two days. Red spots. Bad fever, he can’t keep food down, and he messes himself.” Pesezk gave out an exclamatory groan.

  “Sounds catchy,” the captain backed away with a hint of distaste. “You look unwell yourself, Rybak.”

  Janusz started, but realised the captain meant the baggy clothes and his unkempt appearance. “I manage, sir. I’ll be fine once things sort themselves out.”

  Captain Kluk turned, saying bitterly, “Sooner than you think.”

  The rest of the morning passed. Gabriela gave milk to the soldiers and chatted with them. Janusz and the captain sat on army camp chairs in front of the house. The tired soldiers lay down, ate apples, checked their rifles.

  “I started this week with a hundred men,” Captain Kluk said. “This is what’s left.”

  “I don’t believe it. Is it that bad?”

  “Worse. We’re finished, Rybak. Too many of them, not enough of us. Bravery takes you so far. You need more guns and tanks to go farther.” He coughed and wiped his head again. “The front’s somewhere around here. We’ll head for it soon. I want the men to rest a little first. Along the way, I’m going to pay back every coward who ran and left us to face the dirty work.”

  Janusz sat uneasily in the mid-morning sun, each minute an hour. The tranquil farm seemed truly as real as his dreams last night – or was it the other way around?

  Then Janusz’s heart stopped when the captain said idly, “Nice farm you have here, Rybak. I’m a professional soldier, but I wouldn’t mind ending up in a place just like this.” He closed his eyes, sucked in a great piney, apple tinged breath. “You know, Rybak, when we shook hands, you have very soft hands for a farmer. Talking with you, you seem too smart, too educated for a country place like this.” Captain Kluk gazed at him now openly and calculatedly. “I mean, it’s pleasant but really
a sort of a shithole, isn’t it?”

  Good Lord. Curtain down. Pesezk hauled out and shot. Me hauled away someplace like a prize goose for dinner. Was I unconsciously showing off again, blithering on about foreign places, science, the things my father dunned into me and simple farmer Rybak shouldn’t know anything about, Janusz despaired? But, inspiration appeared to the rescue.

  “Heavy work gloves are required around here, captain. And my good wife liked my soft hands, rest her. The place is good enough for me. I thank you for the personal compliments. I have tried to improve myself. I read. I study. I’ve learned a little music. I tell my daughter she must study hard in school so she doesn’t end up,” he smiled convincingly, “in this shithole.”

  “Sorry for the provocation, Rybak. I would understand if you took a poke at me. Maybe this is why we’re losing. No fighting spirit left.” If Captain Kluk had deeper suspicions, he also had many other things on his mind and he immediately lost interest in peering further into Janusz’s staged existence. The inspiration just now that had come to Janusz was using very much the same reply to the captain’s crude insult about this farm that he had once given to that poisonous, white-haired tyrant Toscanini, who sneered virtually the same thing to him, but meant Janusz’s entire nation.

  Around noon, Captain Kluk ordered his remaining men into the truck, packed up the camp chairs and a canvas full of apples. Janusz and Gabriela stood together and she put her feathery light hand in his. The captain leaned out of the cab of the truck as it swung around to head out. “Take care of yourself, Rybak. The storm’s just ahead. Do whatever it takes to protect her.”

  Janusz blurted out, “God bless you all.” He and Gabriela waved at the departing truck and the weary soldiers waved and shouted back at them.

  He let out a ragged breath as the truck disappeared in a dusty haze up the road. Captain Kluk and his men left truck tracks in the dust and scattered apple cores and that, Janusz suspected, was all that would remain of them as they disappeared into history.