After an hour of silence, Grandpa Sergei asked for the bottle of brandy. Usually Grandpa Sergei doesn’t need to drink from that bottle, just in times of great pain, but that evening he was moved and took a few long swigs. He sat, withdrawn into himself, and didn’t ask anything or make any remarks.
He didn’t get up from his bedding until the end of the evening. “You mustn’t drink brandy. Brandy dulls thought, and a person forgets who he is and what’s required of him. Next time, if I ask you to give me the brandy bottle, don’t give it to me.”
“I won’t be able to refuse you, Grandpa Sergei.”
“I command you.”
Yanek didn’t respond. This time Grandpa Sergei’s voice was determined and not directed at Yanek, but at himself.
21
The next day Grandpa Sergei spoke about the need to equip themselves for the struggle against the wicked.
“The wicked know that true wanderers wish to purify themselves, but this doesn’t stop them from hating them with clenched teeth. We are few, but we are faithful to the Ten Commandments that God gave us,” Grandpa Sergei spoke with a strong voice.
“Is it possible to recognize the wicked?” Yanek dared to ask.
“Their deeds testify to them. They seek only to do harm, especially to strangers and the crippled and lepers.”
“What must we do?” Yanek asked.
“I cannot prepare myself better than life has prepared me. But you can do exercise after exercise. In a little while I’ll pass the pistol on to you and teach you how to use it properly.”
“Just the two of us will fight against the wicked?” asked Yanek.
“No, we’ll train the weak and the miserable to be stronger and resourceful. We’ll take them up from their low place, raise their stature, restore the image of God in them. Without the image of God, there’s no way of facing life correctly.”
Yanek remembered the tramps who lived in shelters for the poor during the winter: unpleasant people, shouting and cursing, and they had reproaches against the whole world. Last autumn they had lived in a hostel. Grandpa Sergei tried to persuade them that it wasn’t proper to use coarse language, that we must preserve the image of God in us. The reaction was swift: “Preach morality to yourself, not to us. We have no interest in God. God takes care of the healthy and rich, not of the needy and those with nothing.”
“I was a master sergeant in a special unit. I can teach you things that will be useful to you.”
“Don’t worry about us. Take care of yourself.”
Grandpa didn’t give in. “And what about your souls?”
“What you can’t see doesn’t exist,” said one of the poorest of the poor, and he said nothing more.
If Grandpa Sergei’s arms hadn’t been strong, they would have stolen their bundles.
Would those people fight against the wicked? They themselves were wicked, Yanek almost said, but he stopped himself.
Yanek made supper and Grandpa Sergei’s mood became relaxed again.
After the meal and after Yanek poured Grandpa a cup of tea and lit his pipe, Grandpa Sergei remembered his village, his parents, and his elder sister Irena.
“Those were lovely days. We would go out to plow the fields, then sow with broad sweeps of our arms, and after a few weeks we’d see the seedlings again and the growth, and our hearts would overflow. Every few days we would come to see the growth in the fields, and we’d be happy when the rain fell at the right time, and the fields were full of sprouting wheat. Those were the fullest days of my life. Later Tanya became part of my life. She was beautiful, and together we knew love. Then I joined the army and I was sure that after my military service I’d come home to my parents, to the soil, and to Tanya. But for some reason I didn’t go back to her. Only God knows why. Suddenly I was captivated by the city lights, bars, cafés, movie houses, and girls who came my way. I would go back to my room dizzy from brandy and sleep restlessly. I knew that my life was polluted, and that I had to recover myself and go back to my parents, to the fields and the gardens and all the good things that the village bestowed on us. I knew, but my feet didn’t take me there. God saved me. I don’t know why. I wasn’t worthy of His mercy.
“One night, I had just left a bar. It was already autumn and a cold wind blew. Suddenly a rather short girl stepped out of an alley. Her hair was gathered in the back, her neck was long. After some hesitation I approached her and introduced myself: ‘My name is Sergei. You please me.’ I expected a movement of rejection, or a reproach. But, amazingly, she said, ‘My name is Dorka.’
“I didn’t invite her for a drink or to sit in a café. I walked beside her, embarrassed, and I didn’t know what to say. I escorted her to her house, and at the gate, I said, ‘Dorka, I’m sure we’ll meet again. Meanwhile, good night.’
“That very week I saw her and walked up to her. She smiled and said, ‘How are you, Sergei?’ Once again, I didn’t know what to say, and I stood there like a dummy. In the end I said, ‘I’m very glad to see you.’
“Since that evening, we were together for all the years that God granted us. I didn’t move from her side. We were only together for three years. Dorka got sick, with a rare disease, and she went up to heaven like an angel.
“That year I arrived at your grandfather’s lumberyard and asked for work. I apparently pleased him, and he hired me. He taught me all about wood, the various beams and planks, what makes some wood expensive, other wood cheap, what’s for construction and what’s for furniture. In that way my soul and his came to be joined. I liked his way of standing, of speaking, his relation to people. Your father is different from him. He doesn’t keep the tradition, but some of your grandfather’s nobility is stamped in him. Your father, like your grandfather, also doesn’t speak a lot. He likes to listen and treats people with compassion. I worked in their lumberyard until I went blind. Even after I was blind, I kept coming to advise customers. Until the lumber business collapsed. Your father went bankrupt, and I had no choice but to go out and wander.
“Sorry I tired you out with talking. I wanted you to know who your ancestors are. I’ve trained you a lot, so your body will do its duty. But there wasn’t always time to deal with matters of the soul.”
22
That night a gang of three fell upon them. Grandpa Sergei, with the agility of a young man, grabbed the legs of two of them powerfully, knocked them down, and hit them. Yanek did the same to the youngest one. The attackers ran for their lives.
Grandpa Sergei was pleased with Yanek’s courage and called him a hero. “We mustn’t be complacent. Even on a quiet, bright night, wicked men steal the little that wanderers possess.”
Now they didn’t go back to sleep. Fortunately there were still branches that had been cut, and Yanek quickly brought the campfire back to life. Grandpa Sergei was upset and didn’t cease denouncing the criminals. When Grandpa Sergei vilifies someone, his face turns red, and for a moment it seems to Yanek that soon he’ll shed the blindness from his eyes, and the company commander will lead his soldiers again. Meanwhile the sky brightened, and the night withdrew into its lair.
While Grandpa was sunk into himself, a girl dressed in a long smock approached Yanek and asked in wonderment, “Who are you?”
“We’re wanderers,” Yanek answered quietly.
“So where’s your house?”
“We don’t have a house. The earth is our floor, and the sky is our roof.”
Upon hearing Yanek’s words, her eyes opened even wider, and she said, “You wander like this all the time?”
“True.”
“Aren’t you cold at night?”
“We sleep in our clothes.”
“And what do you eat?”
“What everyone eats: bread, cheese, and potatoes.”
“So you’re like everyone else?”
“True.”
“But why do you scare me?”
“There’s nothing to be afraid of. We’re like everyone.”
Hardly had Yanek sa
id that when she picked up her feet and ran away.
It was a fine morning. Thin smoke curled up out of the chimneys of the houses—a sign that the housewives were making semolina porridge, and soon they would serve full plates to all the members of the household.
Yanek also started to prepare breakfast. He asked Grandpa whether to make cornmeal porridge or set out bread and cheese. Grandpa Sergei, after thinking for a while, said, “It’s good to heat up the belly with porridge in the morning. Cornmeal porridge reminds me of home, of my father’s and mother’s faces, and the light in the windows.”
Then Grandpa Sergei said, “I’m sorry I didn’t appreciate the beauty and the taste of my childhood. Yanek, every day you must choose a sight and say to yourself: I will treasure this sight forever. If you meet an old man, or someone young, and you speak with them, and they say something fine to you, or a meaningful proverb—keep them in your memory.”
Yanek loves this clear morning hour. He’s with himself and with his thoughts, and suddenly a cool breeze from the woods touches his neck, and he sees his mother sitting in the garden, dressed in summer clothes, and she’s pretty. Even then, when he was barely nine years old, he used to say to himself: My mother and father won’t die. They’ll always be with me. He immediately ran to his mother, and she hugged him and asked, “What were you thinking about?”
“That we won’t always be together.”
“Why did you think of that?”
“Hermann, my classmate—his mother died last week.”
“Don’t worry,” his mother quickly said. “Your father and I will live for a long time, and we won’t go and rest in heaven until we’re very old.”
His mother’s words, and even more her arms when she hugged him, calmed him down. But tears burst from his eyes and wouldn’t stop. His mother quickly pressed him to her heart and murmured, “You’ll always be with me.”
That morning Grandpa Sergei sat with his legs crossed and sang military marches, alternating with nostalgic songs. He sang slowly and emphasized the words. Yanek felt that the melodies were dear to Grandpa Sergei, and he did repeat them several times. In the end he took a deep breath and said, “A person has to have melodies. Without melodies there’s no vitality. Do you understand, Yanek?”
“I like to hear my mother sing. I don’t sing myself,” Yanek told him.
That morning Grandpa Sergei was wrapped in nostalgia. Yanek heard him singing song after song. Suddenly he saw his mother singing and for a moment he wanted to join in with her, but his voice didn’t obey him. It made him sad to be blocked, and he laid his head on the sack.
23
In the afternoon Yanek went to a tobacco and liquor store and bought Grandpa Sergei some tobacco.
In the tobacco store the customers are mainly tall, bulky men, and quite a few drunks. Yanek overcame his fear, approached the counter, and asked for tobacco.
“Leaves or cut?” asked the woman who owned the store.
“Cut.”
She immediately brought him a tin box, opened it, and showed him what was inside.
“Fresh tobacco?” asked Yanek.
“Fresh, we just cut it yesterday.”
While he was paying her, a peasant approached him and asked, “Who are you?”
Yanek was alarmed, but he recovered his wits and answered, “My name is Yanek, and I’m buying tobacco for Grandpa Sergei.”
“And what are you doing here?”
“Grandpa and I are resting in the grove here. We’re on our way to the village of Nikolaiev.”
“Are you wanderers?”
“We’re going to visit Grandpa’s sister.”
“If I see you again, you’ll catch some blows.”
Yanek overcame his fear, returned to Grandpa Sergei, and told him what had happened.
Grandpa Sergei listened and said, “Wicked man. He’ll go to hell.”
Yanek wasn’t at ease. He had met a man with a wicked heart. Grandpa Sergei sensed Yanek’s fear and said, “I’ll also teach you how to deal with people like that. A man, even if he’s a giant, is still only a man. He has weak points. You have to be brave, and everything will go right.”
Suddenly Yanek saw someone he hadn’t seen for many days: Elena, a very pretty Ukrainian girl who had worked in their home until she found a husband. When she stopped working, his mother bought her a lot of clothes, blankets, and sheets, and she gave a going-away party for her.
Yanek was four or five then. He parted from Elena with many tears. The assurances that soon she would come and visit were of no use. He refused to be consoled and kept crying.
Yanek saw Elena before his eyes, her plump, red fingers. They used to play in the house or the garden, always laughing, and when his mother went shopping, they would sit on the bed, and Elena would tell him stories about her village or scary stories that had been told to her in her childhood.
Yanek looked forward to her arrival in the morning, and in the evening, when she put on her coat to go home, he would hold on to her and refuse to let go. His mother used to say, “Elena has to go back to her parents in the evening. She’ll come back to us in the morning. You’re a big boy, and you’re smart, so let go of her.”
“I won’t let go.” Then his mother would approach him and say, “You mustn’t stop Elena. You’re hurting her.”
He stopped crying. But at the goodbye party the sobbing came back and wouldn’t stop.
Meanwhile Grandpa Sergei made a “review of the situation” and decided they would leave that night and start on their way. Everything that had happened during the day, the attack at night, the peasant’s threats in the tobacco shop, and other talk that had reached his ears, indicated that it was best to clear out. But not in haste. There was still time to sit and drink a cup of tea and light the pipe.
Meanwhile Grandpa Sergei opened his belt and showed Yanek the pistol. “I got this pistol from the commander of the regiment when I finished my service. Please read what’s engraved on the stock.”
Yanek read: “To Master Sergeant Sergei Ivanovich for exemplary service, for courage and determination. Signed: Commander of the Seventy-First Regiment.”
“It’s a good pistol. At the first opportunity, after you’ve learned to take it apart and put it together, you’ll start to train with it.”
Yanek was moved and said, “Thank you, Grandpa.”
After a silence, Grandpa Sergei said, “Training in a special unit prepares you to live right. First, not to go easy on yourself. Not to say, I can’t. Everything is possible if you’re ready to dare. We would climb steep mountains, equipped with climbing boots. The abyss lay below, but that didn’t stop us from going up.
“After I was released from the army, civilian life seemed weak to me, without real content, and meaningless. When the time comes, I hope you’ll be in a special unit. You’ll be outstanding, and they’ll send you to officers training. When you return from officers training, you’ll rise higher and higher until you’re a general. I, to my regret, never studied in high school, and that prevented me from being accepted in officers training. But you, the sky’s the limit for you. You have traits and abilities to stand out in every field.”
Before they set out, Grandpa Sergei added, “Service in a special unit prepares you to be honest in your ways, to love the truth, and to serve God without reservation. In my wanderings I met a priest who had served in a special unit in his youth. He immediately discovered, without my saying a word, that I was a commander in the special unit, and he saluted me. He invited me to his home and served me a hot meal, and because it was autumn and it was raining without letup outside, he let me live in an alcove of the church until the flood passed.
“On Sunday I wanted to stand at the church door and ask for contributions. The priest’s response was: ‘It’s not right for a commander who served in a special unit to stand at the church door and beg for alms. I’ll tell the congregation who you are and what you did in the special unit, and they’ll give you a significant contribut
ion in a dignified way.’ And that’s what happened.
“That fall we talked a lot, the priest and I, about wandering and about what it does for the soul. Wandering is only valuable if it raises up the soul for true service to God.”
24
Yanek quickly learned how right Grandpa Sergei had been. After an hour of walking, a volley of stones fell on them. Grandpa Sergei stopped and ordered: Lie down and cover your head with your hands. They were in the middle of a cornfield. It was hard to know where the stones were coming from. In any event, they didn’t move.
After lying there for an hour, they heard the voices of boys who were on their way to the village. Grandpa got up and immediately decided: they wouldn’t enter the village. They’d go to the forest. Grandpa Sergei knew the area like the palm of his hand. For a long time he had trained his soldiers here. Even now, in his blindness, he pointed out features of the landscape.
“Do you see the telegraph pole?”
“I see it,” answered Yanek.
“Is the dirt path still passable?”
“Passable.”
“We’ll turn to the right, into the forest.”
Everybody called the forest the White Forest, because of the many birch trees that grew in it. Within an hour of walking, they were at its edge.
Meanwhile, morning approached. Yanek went to gather dry branches to light the campfire. There were plenty of branches, and it was easy to light the fire.
Every time they escape danger, Grandpa Sergei whispers a few words and immediately sinks into his thoughts. Yanek prepared cornmeal porridge, and Grandpa Sergei fondly remembered Kiril, who had supplied them with that food. “Kiril was a model soldier.”
“Yanek, my dear, please read me a psalm. Psalms help us connect with purity.”
“Which psalm should I read, Grandpa Sergei?”
“It doesn’t matter. All the psalms are precious.”
Long Summer Nights Page 7
