Yanek woke up and rose to his feet, asking, “Should I make cornmeal porridge?”
“No need. You should rest.”
“I’m absolutely fine.”
After finishing the porridge, Yanek said, “I’ll go and get some branches.”
“I won’t let you go by yourself. I’ll go with you.”
Yanek gathered branches, and together they brought them back to the ruin.
“What happened to me?” asked Yanek.
“You were exhausted from running and from the heavy wet weather. We won’t set out today. I think that by now your parents will be coming home, and we’ll help them fix up the house. Rest, my dear. Don’t be ashamed to rest. In the past few days you fought like a lion.”
41
The following days were quiet. The war moved away from that place, and, though shots were heard now and then, they felt safe in the ruin. Grandpa Sergei didn’t neglect Yanek for a moment and sometimes reminded him about the people they had met on their way: the peasants and the former soldiers, and the children. “If you met someone on the way, that’s a sign that he’s a messenger. You have to remember him and think about what he was trying to convey to you.” Grandpa Sergei spoke at length about his former soldier, Kiril, who had suffered so much in his life. “He was a hero, and in his last war he surpassed himself.”
Suddenly he addressed Yanek and said, “You’ve seen a lot of things in our journey. We’ve received a lot of gifts. We didn’t always know how to appreciate them properly. When you go back home to your parents, and all the trials we’ve undergone are behind you, you’ll certainly ask yourself: what did Grandpa Sergei give me?”
Yanek was alarmed and said, “Grandpa Sergei, I know your every movement and gesture. Everything you said to me in the morning, the afternoon, and the evening. Don’t worry, Grandpa, I retain your words in my heart.”
“Pardon me. I had no doubt,” said Grandpa with a slight laugh.
The daily routine didn’t change, but Grandpa Sergei’s face changed. He often sank into thought, recalled his sister, his late wife Dorka, his youthful love, Tanya, his soldiers, with whom he had gone a long way in life. He asked Yanek to remember Kiril’s generosity, for giving them a quarter of a sack of cornmeal, which had nourished them for many days, and to visit him. It would be a very good deed to visit him. He has lost everything, and people probably ignore him. “Tell your father about him. Your father will certainly give you money to bring to him.”
“Grandpa Sergei,” Yanek was alarmed again. “You’ll be with me, and we’ll do it together.”
“Certainly I’ll be with you.”
The war moved away from them. Grandpa Sergei seemed to be roused from slumber and said, “We mustn’t delay. We have to go back home.”
“When?” asked Yanek.
“Tomorrow,” Grandpa Sergei’s answer came without delay.
Yanek asked for permission to go to the store, and Grandpa Sergei allowed it. Yanek took a shirt out of his pack, which still showed signs of ironing, and he said, “It’s small on me now. I can’t wear it.”
“Keep it. Take a piece of my clothing. Your mother will decide what to do with it.”
“Please, Grandpa, the shirt is small on me. All my clothes are small on me.”
“Take my scarf,” Grandpa decreed, removing it from his neck.
Yanek set out. He was still weak, and his legs barely carried him. The thought that he was going to sell Grandpa Sergei’s scarf disturbed him, and he went back the way he had come.
“I can’t sell your scarf.”
Grandpa Sergei heard him and responded immediately, “Clothes wear out in the end.”
“I like your scarf,” said Yanek, bursting into tears.
“My intention was,” Grandpa Sergei’s voice grew softer, “to return you to your home with all your clothes and with the valuables your father left with us.”
Yanek couldn’t stop crying, and he murmured, “Not the scarf, not the scarf.”
“It’s not fitting for a combat soldier to cry,” Grandpa Sergei’s commanding voice returned to him.
After recovering, Yanek asked permission to look for mushrooms. Grandpa Sergei allowed it. He looked for a long time and in the end he found a cluster of mushrooms. He immediately picked them and put them in his hat.
Without delay he returned to the ruin and told Grandpa Sergei about his find.
Their lunch included cornmeal porridge, mushrooms, and berries. Grandpa Sergei was content and repeated a proverb he liked, “Who is rich? He who is happy with his lot.”
Afterward he recalled his late wife’s face and spoke about Dorka’s beauty and modesty and her ability to listen to people. “Women, relatives, used to come to speak with her. After a conversation they would hug and kiss her. I didn’t deserve her.”
42
While Grandpa Sergei went on to talk about his life, Yanek fell asleep.
In his dream, he and Grandpa Sergei were sitting in a wagon on their way home. Only now did he grasp what he had undergone since his father left him with Grandpa Sergei. The broad fields, the encampments in the shade of sheltering trees, the cool taste of the water he drew from dark wells, the streams they had bathed and washed their clothes in, walking to a village and the joy upon finally reaching the tree at the entrance to the village.
While he was immersed in those sights, the driver stopped the wagon and said, “The rain isn’t letting up. The road is full of potholes, the horses are tired. The wagon’s wheels won’t stand up to this pounding. Get off. I’m going back home.”
“You’re making us get off in the middle of fields, with a heavy rain? Don’t you have mercy in your heart?” Yanek spoke to him mildly.
“No,” he answered curtly, in one word.
“You’ve gone more than a third of the way. In an hour and a half we’ll be in the city. Why won’t you finish the job, so that you’ll get the wristwatch we promised you?”
“I don’t care. I’m going home,” he said dryly.
“God has given you an opportunity to do a good deed and also get paid for it. You started the good deed — finish it,” Yanek spoke quietly to him.
“Get off right away, or I’ll throw you off.”
Yanek, without delay, jumped off the wagon and spoke firmly, “The days of bullying and lawlessness are finished. Take us to the city immediately.” To give credibility to his words, he drew the pistol from his belt and fired a shot in the air. He got back onto the wagon and said, “Drive on now, without arguments and threats.”
The wagon driver said nothing and whipped the horses. All the way to the city, Yanek didn’t put the pistol back in his belt.
Many thoughts raced around in his head, but not one was clear. When they reached the city, Yanek directed him to his house. It was morning, and there was light in the windows of the houses. Not in Yanek’s house.
“Even though you drove with a wicked heart and you forgot that there’s a God in the world, I’m giving you the watch I promised.”
Upon hearing Yanek’s words, the man got down from his seat and said: “Look, two wheels are broken, and it’s lucky I had wheels to replace them with. I haven’t forgotten that there’s a God. I just wanted to spare the wagon.”
“And why didn’t you want to spare us?”
“I spared you, but I had no choice.”
“Was the wagon more important to you than two people with no roof over their heads in the rain and wind?”
“Why argue? What happened happened.”
“And you feel no remorse?”
“If you want me to feel remorse, I feel remorse.”
“Very well,” said Yanek. He handed him the watch and woke up.
43
While the war was moving farther away, the wanderers were fleeing to the monastery, and there was no bad omen in the sky but a stray bullet struck Grandpa Sergei in the forehead. It happened all of a sudden, almost without a sound, and, had it not been for the shock that moved his upper body
slightly, his death wouldn’t have been noticeable.
Very little blood flowed from his forehead. His position didn’t indicate pain.
Yanek knelt and the words, “Grandpa Sergei” escaped his lips, as though to say: what happened to you?
There was absolute silence all around. Here and there a horse, mule, and calf. “Grandpa Sergei,” he called again, and this time in a choked voice, looking at his bent head, he wondered why there was no answer. Grandpa Sergei didn’t always answer his questions. Quite often he sank into himself and delayed his answers, and for a moment it sounded like one of those silences when he didn’t answer.
Grandpa Sergei didn’t move. The moderation that restrained him seemed to have grown stronger, and for a moment it seemed to Yanek that it wasn’t death that had silenced him, but that marvelous moderation that conquered him every time he thought or sank into reflections.
Where were the thugs? Where were the wanderers? Where were they? Yanek woke up, but he immediately grasped: the wanderers had pressed in through the iron gate of the monastery with great force. Grandpa Sergei and Yanek had accompanied them, but they hadn’t gone in.
As he was his habit, Yanek lit the campfire and put the kettle on the coals. The full flame brought to his eyes the way they would sit next to the fire. For most of their days together, the fire sheltered them. The thought that Grandpa Sergei wasn’t among the living floated from his body, but even after it arose, it went out immediately. Only when one of the local madmen attacked him and called him a stinking tramp, Yanek grabbed him and threw him to the ground. He squirmed with his arms and legs. The squirming brought Grandpa Sergei’s death before Yanek’s eyes, and he let the madman go away without anger.
When he returned to the campfire he saw Grandpa Sergei lying in a position of thoughtfulness. “Grandpa Sergei,” he called out loud. He straightened his head and put it on the sack where he used to rest.
Then he poured himself a cup of tea. Drinking tea was part of their conversation, or, rather, their silences.
Once Grandpa said to him, “I’m silent because I don’t know what to say.”
Once, in a moment of great enthusiasm, he said, “I’m silent because I have more words than necessary.”
At the time, as we have said, Yanek didn’t understand most of the words and terms that Grandpa Sergei had used, but in the past months some of them had become clear to him.
Now he burst into sobbing, deep sobbing that broke out from within him. Grandpa Sergei forbade crying. He used to say, “Weeping is weakness. True wanderers don’t allow themselves such a surrender.”
Suddenly a cold wind blew, and Yanek quickly covered Grandpa in his winter army coat.
“Grandpa, are you asleep? Once you told me that our sleep is attached to the night, to the great sleep, from which it draws glowing sights and words of truth.”
“What do you have to sell?” the peasants sometimes asked him.
“I have nothing to sell you. I’m devoid of possessions,” he would answer.
They smiled at you, as if you were trying to cheat them. Their opinion of you was foolish. They didn’t imagine to themselves, couldn’t imagine to themselves, that you were wandering in order to be close to God.
“What do you have hidden?” they kept asking. “We’ll pay you with horses and a wagon. You can wander wherever you please.”
In vain he told them, “I don’t have a penny, and I don’t need money either.”
Because of their disbelief, they would attack at night.
Then reality came and showed Yanek its face. An old peasant approached them and seeing Grandpa Sergei lying without moving, he asked, “Who’s that man lying on the ground?”
“He’s my grandfather, Grandpa Sergei,” Yanek answered.
“When did he pass away?”
“An hour or two ago. A bullet penetrated his forehead.”
“Where will you bury him?”
“I’ll take him to his home village, to Ivanov, so he’ll be gathered with his ancestors.”
“That’s good. When will you set out?” he kept asking.
“Soon. It should be known to you, sir, that my grandfather was an officer in the rescue unit, one of the famous units. Everyone who served in his unit respected him even after he finished his service.”
“I’m sure that they will receive him with joy in heaven, and you will be blessed in this world.”
The old man, who seemed to be a wise man, removed the cloth of fog from Yanek’s eyes and showed him what his duty was at this time.
44
While he worried about what to do and how to do it, he saw a cart lying on the ground, a cart that had been used to transport potatoes and watermelons from the field. In their great haste, the wanderers had abandoned it.
He went over to it right away and turned it back upon onto its two wheels, gripped the shafts, and rolled it to the tree.
After he lowered the shafts to the ground he was alarmed, because this was a device that would serve death.
He stood for a long time without doing anything. Grandpa Sergei’s face was calm. No pain was visible on it. The hole in his forehead, through which the bullet had penetrated, had widened slightly, and the flesh was red.
“What must I do”? he asked himself, as though he were facing an impossible task. But as he stood and wondered, a practical idea arose in his mind: first he would place the corpse on the cart. Alongside it and at its feet, he would place the clothing and the objects that had served them. But meanwhile he understood that if he wanted to honor Grandpa Sergei, he couldn’t pick him up by himself.
While he was standing there, half frozen, he saw two peasants approaching.
“Dear uncles,” he spoke to them. “I need your help urgently. My grandfather, Grandpa Sergei, was shot a few hours ago by a stray bullet, and I intend to bring him to be buried with his ancestors. My grandfather was a respected man, a famous commander and a lover of humanity.”
“How can we help you?” asked one of the peasants.
“You can help me place the body on the cart in a respectable manner.”
“We’ll do it,” they said together.
For a moment they stood next to the body and crossed themselves. Yanek spread a blanket on the floor of the cart and placed a folded sack for Grandpa Sergei’s head. After delaying for a moment, looking at the body and estimating its weight, they picked it up, and Yanek helped them place it slowly on the floor.
“Thank you from the bottom of my heart, uncles. Your deed will make an impression in heaven,” said Yanek.
“What’s the name of the deceased?” asked one of them.
“Sergei Ivanovich,” Yanek answered quickly.
“The famous master sergeant Sergei Ivanovich?” the man was stunned.
“Yes. Where are you from?” Yanek asked, suddenly feeling excited.
“We grew up in the same region.”
“In Ivanov?”
“Yes, yes, in Ivanov.”
“What a childhood, what youth, what a life. Only Sergei knew how to profit from the muscles of his arms and legs and from his height. We were also tall and thin and quick, but not like him. Right from the first days in the army, Sergei stood out. Even then his commanders admired him. Too bad he didn’t study in high school. If it hadn’t been for that obstacle, he would have finished his service as a great general. Now he’s lying in this miserable cart. That’s life. They tell us we mustn’t complain. We won’t complain. Go, friend, and bring our dear comrade to his eternal rest. Don’t cover his face. A man like him deserves to go to the grave with his face exposed.”
After they went away, Yanek placed the packs and bundles in the cart, and when there was nothing else, tears came to his eyes, and he sat and wept. Grandpa Sergei, where have you disappeared to? How can I find you? What can we do in this world without you? The questions rolled around in his head, and he couldn’t stop them. In his heart Yanek knew that Grandpa Sergei didn’t like questions that had no answers. He promis
ed himself that someday he would correct this fault and stop asking.
Without further delay, he took up the shafts and set out.
The cart was heavy, and Yanek could barely drag it.
Grandpa Sergei had led a whole platoon behind him. A commander has to be at the head. That was his way, and not only in the army. No wonder he was awarded the imperial blue medal and many other medals, but he never boasted about those medals. He often said: a soldier is flesh and blood, he learns service and discipline in the army, so that he can serve God when the time comes.
While Yanek was pulling the cart, he heard a voice: “Yanek, I haven’t parted from you, nor from your father or your grandfather. We were bound together in this world, and we will be bound together in the world to come. Don’t be sad. The path to the infinite is long, but this is the start of the path.”
Yanek heard Grandpa Sergei’s voice, stopped the cart, and said, “Grandpa Sergei, speak, your grandson is listening.”
As soon as Yanek stopped the cart, Grandpa Sergei’s voice was silenced, as sometimes happened, and Yanek knew that by the evening Grandpa Sergei wouldn’t speak to him anymore.
45
While Yanek was pulling the cart, the chilly evening fell. Grandpa Sergei’s face didn’t change, but it grew paler, as when he sank into himself.
Yanek was thirsty and went to light a fire. It seemed to him that the smell of the campfire would arouse the desire to speak in Grandpa. For a long time he awaited his voice, but not a syllable came from his lips.
Yanek poured a cup of tea for himself. He took a piece of bread out of his pack, dipped it in the boiling tea, and the good flavors he knew from this wanderings returned to him and filled his mouth.
“Grandpa,” he spoke to Grandpa Sergei without raising his head. “We won’t see each other next to the campfire anymore? Won’t you tell me about your other life anymore? Won’t you tell me about my father and mother and grandfather anymore? If they don’t want to receive you in your village, I’ll take you with me, and you’ll be with me until you come back to life.”
Long Summer Nights Page 13
