TADEUSZ DOLEGA MOSTOWICZ
THE WITCHDOCTOR
EXCERPTS
Translated by Anthony Stanis New York 2011
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CHAPTER I
In the surgeon’s ward reigned absolute silence, periodically broken by
distinct, sharp clinks of metal instruments placed on a glass plate. Those inside
breathed in through respirators nauseous, sultry air mixed with vapors of
chloroform and the odor of raw blood. One of the nurses had fainted in the corner,
yet no one at the operating table rallied to resuscitate her. None could or would;
three assisting doctors alertly trained their eyes at the open red cavity in which
moved slowly and seemingly awkwardly the rugged hands of Professor Wolf.
The slightest shift and twist of these butcher like hands had to be
immediately and accurately interpreted. The imperceptible nod, the stifled grunt
escaping from under the mask contained directions, which were readily understood
by the assistants and obeyed in an instant. After all, it was not only a case of
saving one’s life, which was essential in itself, but to overcome the odds of this
very complicated operation, even if it had been judged impossible to perform and
one had had to be crazy to dare to undertake it, and in effect to garner more esteem,
not only for the professor of the clinic and his assisting doctors, but also for Polish
science, not to mention worldwide publicity.
Professor Wolf operated on an open heart. He held it in his left hand; softly
massaging it, rhythmically squeezing it with his fat fingers because he felt it was
weakening. Through the thin rubber gloves he sensed every ripple and gurgle
when valves of the heart refused to pump; with his numb fingers he forced it to
perform. The surgery was in its forty-sixth minute. Doctor Marczewski, who was
responsible for pulse and blood pressure, for the sixth time injected the patient with
solution of atropine and camphor.
Meanwhile the professor’s right hand executed a succession of short, quick
cuts with lancet knives and spoons. Luckily the boil wasn’t lodged deep into the
heart muscle, placing itself shallow in a truncated conical shape. “The life of this
man will be preserved if he survives eight, nine more minutes,” flitted through the
professor’s head.
“None of the top surgeons in the world dared even to consider such a risqué,
never ever attempted operation,” cogitated conceitedly Professor Wolf.
“That’s right, no one - none of the London surgeons, Paris, Berlin, none of
Vienna. They’ve delivered their patient to Warsaw, forfeiting fame and substantial
pecuniary reward; this financial reward will render a new wing in his clinic
possible and primarily for Beata and the baby a trip to the Canary Islands for the
winter. It’ll be hard on him without them; nevertheless it’ll be good for them.
Beata’s nerves recently…”
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The bluish pouch of the left lung rose in a spasm, filled with air and then
abruptly collapsed. Once, twice, thrice, whereas the live flesh held in the
professor’s hand shuddered. A trickle of blood from the tiny wound fell on the
violet diaphragm. The eyes of the assistants betrayed panic. The low hiss of
oxygen manifested itself again, and another hypodermic was administered under
the skin of the patient. The professor’s fingers continued to squeeze and open in a
frantic pace. Several minutes later the tiny wound was cleared.
A fine surgical thread will wrap up the procedure. One, two, three stitches;
simply incredulous how such a huge pair of hands was capable of so delicate task.
Gingerly he placed the heart back and observed it intently. It swelled and limped
unevenly, though the danger unmistakably was over. He straightened himself and
gave a nod. From the sterile white cloth Doctor Skorzen took the sawed off part of
the chest. A few more of necessary measures and the professor breathed a sigh of
relief. The rest belonged to his assistants. He trusted them absolutely, without a
shade of doubt; after the final instructions he went into the dressing room.
With real pleasure he took a deep breath of fresh air, removed a respirator,
gloves, a coat and a bloodstained apron and stretched himself to his full frame. The
clock indicated 2:35 p.m. Again he’d be late for dinner, and on a festive day. True,
Beata comprehended only too well that the performed operation was inordinately
paramount to him; notwithstanding being tardy on this commemorative day might
get her riled up. Purposefully when leaving the house in the morning he had not
betrayed himself he had remembered the date, the eighth anniversary of their
wedding. But Beata knew perfectly well that he had not forgotten it. Every year
on that special day she had received a nice present, each consecutive year more
precious and more expensive in direct proportion to his rising fame and wealth.
The professor on the run changed the apparel. He still had to look up the
bedridden on the third floor and to reappraise the patient he had just operated on.
On duty there Doctor Skorzen reported tersely:
“Temperature 36C, blood pressure 140, pulse weak and arrhythmic from 60
to 66.”
“Thank God,” the professor said amiably.
The young doctor in adulation beheld the colossal, bear like form of his
chief. He currently with assiduity attended the professor’s lectures at the
university; had been instrumental in gathering materials in preparatory stages when
the professor had been involved in scientific research antecedent to establishing of
his own clinic. In due course Doctor Skorzen had been awarded a highly desirable
position with access to a wide field of exploration. Perhaps he regretted that his
chief had suddenly abandoned the ambitious scholarly projects, limiting himself to
lecturing at the university, in preference to financial advancements; he didn’t
admire him less on that account.
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He knew all along, like everyone else in Warsaw, that the professor was not
toiling like a slave for his personal or monetary gains, that he had never shirked
responsibilities and often had performed miracles like the one today.
“Professor, you are a genius, sir,” he exclaimed with conviction.
“Please do not exaggerate, my friend. Believe me, in time you’ll attain the
comparable skills. I’ll admit though I am quite pleased of the outcome. In case of
complications get without delay in touch with me, although between us I’m certain
it won’t be necessary. I’d rather prefer that way. Today I would like to celebrate
my anniversary without interruptions. I’m sure they have already phoned here to
remind me not to be late.”
The professor was right. In his office the telephone rang unremittingly.
“Please inform the professor,” impetuously pleaded the butler, “to return
home as soon as possible.”
“The professor is in the surgical ward,” every time replied the unperturbed
Miss Janowicz, the professor’s secretary.
“An emergency?” inquired Doctor Dobraniecki upon entering.
Miss Janowicz turned the roller of the printer, removed the just finished
letter and volunteered:
“There’s the professor’s wedding anniversary celebration this evening. You
have not forgotten, have you? You of all have received an invitation, haven’t you?”
“I haven’t forgotten. I expect it to be a perfect soiree as usual. There will be
an excellent orchestra, exquisite food and the cream of society.”
“You have omitted, doctor, I’m surprised, beautiful women,” she remarked
ironically.
“No, I’ve not; you’ll be there, too, won’t you?”
The lean, affable countenance of the secretary flushed rubicund.
“You are jesting, doctor,” she shrugged it off. “Even if I were a perfect
beauty, you wouldn’t even condescend to notice me.”
Miss Janowicz intensely disliked Doctor Dobraniecki. He was a pleasant
looking man, fairly handsome with a classic aquiline profile and high forehead; a
highly regarded surgeon whom the professor trusted with the most complicated
operations and eventually had promoted to a dean. Despite of the above she
discerned in him a selfish, unscrupulous careerist who sought every opportunity to
better himself, like for instance through a wealthy matrimony. Apart from that, she
judged him to be arrogant, disrespectful and discourteous toward the professor, to
whom he owed everything.
Doctor Dobranecki was subtle enough to detect a shade of enmity in her
voice. A master of deception so as not to displease or antagonize anybody who
might present even a minor hurdle in his advancement, he answered in the mode of
a conciliatory guise, pointing to a box flanking the table.
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“I see you have furnished yourself with a new fur coat from Porajski.”
“I couldn’t afford Porajski, especially this type of fur.”
“This type?”
“Please take a good look. It’s a black sable.”
“Hmmm! Hmm! Life has been good to Mrs. Beata.”
He nodded thoughtfully and added:
“At least in a material sense.”
“What do you mean by this?”
“Oh, nothing, nothing at all.”
“Aren’t you ashamed, doctor?” She erupted disdainfully. “Such a man,
loving her with all his body and soul could be envied…”
“Oh yes, it’s understandable…”
Miss Janowicz pierced him with her angry eyes.
“She has everything a woman can dream. She has her youth, beauty,
adorable daughter, and a famous and universally esteemed and admired husband,
who slaves nights and days to provide for her comforts, extravagances and social
position. And I assure you, doctor, she knows how to appreciate such a man.”
“I don’t doubt it,” he nodded politely, “but I also am aware what women
treasure most.” He hadn’t completed the sentence. Into the office fell Doctor Bang;
he cried out:
“He’ll live! Incredible! A miracle I’d say.”
With the enthusiasm of a youth he surged into his narration pertaining to the
operation he had assisted in.
“Only our professor dared to venture the very impossible! Again he has
admirably proven his superiority,” echoed Miss Janowicz.
“Please, don’t get carried away,” interpolated Doctor Dobraniecki.
“My patients happened to be not of the lords or millionaires ilk. Not to boast
about I have been lucky to perform several successful heart operations, whereas
Doctor Krajewski, also here in Warsaw, wrote a golden page in the annals of
medical history with an identical operation thirty years ago.”
Others of the clinic staff quite naturally gravitated into the professor’s office;
so that once he had entered he was swamped with congratulations.
He listened politely with a content grin adorning his large fleshy face. From
time to time he furtively consulted his watch. Another good twenty minutes had
elapsed before he climbed inside his long limousine.
“Home,” he ordered the chauffeur, sprawling himself comfortably in the
back seat.
He was recovering fast. He was strong and healthy. Because of his tendency
to put on weight he looked a bit older; he was but 43 years old and felt much
younger, at times like a teenager. To be truthful wasn’t he able to quite
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convincingly turn tumbles on the carpet and play hide-and-seek with his daughter,
Mary-Yolanda, not only for her enjoyment but for his as well?
Beata could never understand such behavior and childish follies. With
consternation she voiced her disapproval.
“Rafael,” she reprimanded him, “what if someone saw you?”
“They will engage me as a circus clown,” he’d offer with a grin.
In reality at such moments he grew dismayed. Beata indubitably was the best
wife in the world. For certain she loved him. Then again her fussing regarding
proper respect for him, awe like reverence and solicitude boarding on liturgy. In
the first years of marriage he had supposed she was a bit shy and perhaps with a
slight inferiority complex. He had attempted to sideline her insecurities by bringing
himself closer to her level. He had related grotesque stories of his apprenticeship,
confided in her about his everyday trials and tribulations, shortcomings and
triumphs in order to purge from her head the preposterous notion that they were
not on equal standing. He had emphasized each and every minute that he lived only
for her, toiled for her and that she was the only justification of his unbound
happiness. It was the sacred truth after all.
He loved her madly, knew that she reciprocated with corresponding passion,
although in a guarded manner, never too overtly. She seemed invariably so subtle
and delicate, pastel like a flower, yet always ready with a praising word and a
warm smile for him. He might have surmised that she couldn’t behave otherwise
hadn’t he seen her joyous and gay, bursting into a robust laughter, playful and
flirtatious while in company of youth, being oblivious that he had espied her. He
literally stood up on his head in an effort to convince her that he was like anyone
else, just an ordinary, carefree, jolly good fellow, alas to no avail. Eventually with
time he had acquiesced himself and proscribed from his heart pretensions to further
or to augment the already enormous aggrandizement of happiness.
In few short hours he will be celebrating the eighth anniversary of their
marriage, the eighth anniversary of the union of the life unspoiled or marred by the
slightest controversy, dispute or a shade of discord, but perpetual bliss illuminated
by countless moments of mirth, caresses, shared secrets…
Shared secrets… In verity it was he who usually unreservedly confided in
her his feelings, thoughts and plans. Beata wouldn’t or couldn’t, perhaps her
inner-self was too timid or too simple, perhaps too insufficient. Professor Wolf
upbraided himself for such description. “Too insufficient” was detrimental to
Beata’s virtues. No, he shouldn’t even entertain alike notion. And if incidentally
he was right, his heart warmed up even more with love and solicitude.
“I’m overpowering her,” he suffered in his mind, “I’m smothering her with
my personality. She’s so sensitive and subtle, that’s why she’s constantly on guard
not to betray herself that her affairs are of common, everyday’s kind.”
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In concert with the above reasoning he endeavored to reward her for the
disproportion of priorities. He got himself wholeheartedly involved in the
particularities of the household, commented on her apparel, hairdo, lent his ear to
diverse projects, social events and gave them attentive consideration as if they
were the assignments of veritable significance.
Nonetheless they became quintessential to him. He firmly believed that
happiness had to be nourished and cultivated with the greatest of solicitude, and
understood that these scarce hours, when he was able extricate himself from the
clinic and devote himself to Beata had to be filled with love and warm care.
The automobile pulled in front of a beautiful white villa, undoubtedly the
most imposing villa in Lilac Alley and one of the most elegant in Warsaw.
Professor Wolf alighted not awaiting for the chauffeur to open the door, took
from him the box with the fur coat and hastily ran up the path. Using his key he
opened the entrance door as quietly as possible, closing it behind him. He had
wanted to surprise Beata, planning all about it while he had been bent over the
open chest cavity in the operating room, scrutinizing jumbled knots of aortas and
veins.
In the anteroom he stumbled upon his butler and an old housekeeper, Mrs.
Michalowa. Apparently Beata was ill disposed for him being tardy, since both of
them pretended to be disenchanted awaiting his belated arrival. He hadn’t expected
such a dramatic demeanor and liked it even less; impatiently he waved them away.
Regardless Bronislaw stirred.
“Professor…Sir.”
“Pst!” Doctor Wolf interrupted him and with a frown added surreptitiously:
“Take my overcoat.”
The butler wished to speak, but was capable to utter only something
unintelligible while helping the professor with the overcoat.
Professor Wolf quickly unpacked the black shiny fur coat of long silky hair,
slang it over his arm, boisterously set on his head the matching fur cap with two
frolicking swaying tails and shoved his left hand into the muffler. With a roguish
grin he eyed himself in the mirror. He resembled a clown, indeed.
He glanced at the servants to check their own impressions, alas the eyes of
the butler and the housekeeper expressed consternation.
“A silly lot with no sense of humor,” he concluded in the end.
“Mr. Professor,” Bronislaw initiated afresh, whereas Mrs. Michalowa
minced her steps on the spot.
“Silence, damn it,” he hissed in a low voice and bypassing them opened the
living room door.
He had expected to find here Beata with the baby, or in the pink baby’s
room, or in the bedroom.
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He crossed the bedroom, the dressing room and peeked into the baby’s
room. He found it also empty. Next he went into his study. No one was there
either. In the dining room on a long adorned with flowers and set with gilded
porcelain and crystals table, he saw two covers yet not cleared off. Earlier MaryYolanda and Miss Tholereed had had their lunch here. In the open pantry door
stood a young maid, her eyes red and puffed up.
“Where’s Beata?” he demanded anxiously.
The maid started to sob.
“What’s going on? Has anything unpleasant occurred?” he inquired while
presentiments of an ominous disaster were asphyxiating him with a lump in the
throat. The housekeeper and Bronislaw silently tiptoed in and stood dumbfounded
by the wall. He glared at them with his eyes filled with horror and roared with
despair in his voice.
“Where’s my wife?”
Suddenly his gaze arrested itself on the table. On his usual plate, leaning on
a crystal shapely wine glass, stood a letter, a pale blue envelope with silvery
edging. His heart pounded hard, head spun. He as yet understood nothing,
comprehended nothing at all. He stretched his hand and reached for the letter
which felt stiff as it were dead itself. For a while he held it in his fingers. On the
envelope addressed to him, he recognized Beata’s handwriting, large, angular
letters.
He opened it and read:
“Dear Rafael! I don’t know whether you ever will forgive me for leaving
you.”
The words began to dance and whirl before his eyes. Lungs laboriously
gasped for air. On his forehead appeared cold beads of perspiration.
“Where is she?” he cried out in a stifled voice. “Where is she?” he groaned,
staring at them with bewildered eyes.
“Mrs. Beata departed with Mary-Jo,” mumbled the distressed housekeeper.
“You are lying!” bellowed Doctor Wolf. “It can’t be true!”
“I called a taxi myself,” Bronislaw declared unceremoniously, appending:
“And I took the luggage down; two suitcases.”
Reeling and stumbling, the professor exited to the neighboring study, closed
the door and leaned on it. He had attempted to continue reading the letter, fumbling
with it for several minutes till he finally was able to fathom the meaning of its
content.
“I don’t know whether you ever will forgive me for leaving you… I’m
tormented by the thoughts how abominable my conduct must appear to you, to
repay you in such a cowardly way for your love and goodness, which I’ll cherish
forever. Alas, I couldn’t stand it any longer. I swear to God, the other solution for
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me was death. Being a weak person and a woman I couldn’t muster enough
courage for it. I’ve been struggling with that notion for months, and perhaps being
perpetually anguished by it I’ll never be happy or at peace, but I couldn’t forsake
Mary-Jo and him!”
“My writing is chaotic. It’s difficult to gather thoughts. Today happens to be
our wedding anniversary. I’m certain that you have prepared for me another
exquisite gift, Rafael. It would have been dishonest on my part to accept it when
I’ve had reached this irrevocable decision.”
“I have fallen in love, Rafael, and that feeling is stronger than the affection I
have for you, from the boundless gratitude to the deepest esteem, veneration and
attachment. I’m truly sorry but I’ve never loved you, which I discovered when in
the course of events I befriended John.”
“I’m departing far and away. Please have pity on me - do not attempt to find
me! I beseech you! Have mercy on us! I count on your magnanimity and your
kindness. I’m not asking for forgiveness, Rafael, which I don’t deserve. I also
came to realize how deeply you must hate and despise me now.”
“I’ve never deserved you, never being on par with you, as you yourself have
to admit, and only to your genial heart I can ascribe that you’ve never exhibited
your superiority, which in itself was demeaning and relentlessly distressing. You
have surrounded me with wealth and a worldly society. You have showered me
with expensive presents. Alas, I was not born into such life. I’ve been tired of that
wild world of wealth, of your fame and my nonentity at your side.”
“Presently I’m clearheadedly embarking on a new life; perhaps it’ll be a
road to poverty or at least a struggle for a crust of bread, yet in this struggle I’ll be
together with the man I infinitely love. If my decision didn’t kill the goodness of
your heart, please forget about me. I’m sure that you will recover, I pray soon, and
with your intelligence and fame you are bound to meet someone one hundred times
better than myself. From the depths of my heart, I wish you happiness which I can
fully experience only when I’m assured of yours.”
“I’m taking Mary-Jo with me because without her I couldn’t live one hour,
as you yourself must know by now. Do not blame me for stealing from you your
greatest treasure, which is also my priceless possession. After some time, when
both of us come to terms with the past, I’ll get in touch with you.”
“Farewell Rafael! Do not delude yourself on account of my frivolity and do
not deceive yourself, there’s nothing in this world to alter my steadfastness. I will
never forsake him; I’d die first. I could never lie to you and rest assured that I’ve
been faithful to you to the end. Good-bye, have mercy on me, and I implore you
again, do not search for me. Beata.”
“P.S. Money and jewelry you’ll find in the safe. The keys to the safe are in
the secret compartment in your desk. I’m taking with me only Mary-Jo’s clothes.”
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Professor Wolf dropped the hand holding the letter down, with the other
wiped his forehead. In the mirror in front of him, he saw the reflection of himself
queerly dressed. He threw aside pieces of the fur apparel and proceeded again with
perusing of the letter.
The blow had struck him so unexpectedly that it felt unreal, as though it had
been just mere foreboding of a warning in the offing.
He read:
“I’m sorry, bur I’ve never loved you.”
And further:
“I’ve been tired of that wild world of wealth, of your fame…”
“How can it be?” he bemoaned sorrowfully. “Why? My God! Why?”
In vain he tried to figure out logically what had transpired. He was repeating
in circles: “She has abandoned me, took my baby. She loves another,” whereas the
cruel significance of it hadn’t reached yet the brain. He was able to perceive only
the naked facts, the bizarre and grotesque abstract facts, not reality.
Outside the early dusk of autumnal evening was lethargically settling. He
neared the window and reread the letter, forgetting how many times he had done it.
Abruptly someone knocked on the door. Professor Wolf shuddered; an
ephemeral notion of hope overwhelmed him.
“That’s her; she has come back to me.”
But in an instant he accepted the improbability of his wish.
“Come in,” he spoke in a hoarse voice.
Mr. Sigmundt Wolf, his relative, a judge of the Appellate Court entered. Although they kept close company and entertained each
other frequently, out of the blue appearance of Sigmundt couldn’t have been incidental. Professor Wolf surmised:
“Mrs. Michalowa has phoned him.”
“How have you been, Rafael?” Sigmundt greeted him in a chumming way.
“How are you?” the professor extended his hand toward the judge.
“Why are you sitting here in darkness? Let me…” Not waiting for an answer
he turned on the light. “It’s cold here like in jail. I see wood in the fireplace.
There’s nothing more comforting than a fireplace going. I’ll ask Bronislaw to start
it.”
Through the partly open door he called out:
“Bronislaw, will you kindly light the fireplace!”
The butler upon entering shot a side-glance at his master, who stood tacitly
by the window, picked up the fur coat from the floor, ignited wood in the fireplace
and exited. The fire ferociously consumed dry pine logs.
“Come, sit down here. Let’s have a chat,” Sigmundt pushed an armchair
toward the fireplace. “Yes sir, warmth, precious commodity. You young can’t yet
appreciate it. But old bones…How come you are not at the clinic? Are you loafing
or what?”
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“Not really, as it happens, I’m in the thick of things.”
“I have phoned you several times,” the appellate judge indulged himself in a
fib, “for an appointment, a consultation. My left leg bothers me again. I’m afraid
it’s ischias.”
Professor Wolf listened in silence. Although only every second or third word
sank into his head the steady monotonous voice of his cousin began to placate him
with a telling effect.
Shortly after his thoughts started to coalesce and couple into a clear picture
of reality. He shivered. Sigmundt changing the tone of his voice asked:
“And where’s Beata?”
The professor’s features tightened. He verbalized with difficulty:
“She’s out, on a trip. She has left the country.”
“What, on the spur of a moment?”
“That’s what we can suppose.”
“Quite unexpected excursion,” threw in Sigmundt.
“Yes, quite unexpectedly; I send her… you do understand…there was some
unpleasantness at hand and in consequence of it…”
He spoke haltingly and with such a painful expression on his face that
Sigmundt precipitously cut him short in the most benign and condescending mode
of expression:
“I understand, naturally. But you have sent invitations for your wedding
anniversary party for the evening. They ought to be cancelled in time by phone.
You will let me take care of it, will you?”
“Please…”
“Good. I assume Michalowa has the invitation list. I’m going to see to it
right away. You better lie down for a spell. What? I won’t be bothering you any
longer. Take care.” He thrust his hand forth, yet the professor didn’t perceive it.
Sigmundt patted him on the back, turned at the door for a moment and left.
The professor was roused from his stupor by the noise outside. He then
noticed that he was gripping Beata’s letter in his hand. He squashed it into a small
ball and threw it into the fireplace; it burst into a red flame and turned into ashes.
There were no traces left of the letter in the fireplace, whereas the logs already
were turning into a heap of glowing cinders. He rubbed his eyes and got up. Slowly
he pushed the armchair aside and swept his eyes around.
“I can’t stand it. I can’t stand it any longer,” he ejaculated and raced into the
anteroom.
Bronislaw jumped off the chair.
“Mr. Professor is going out, yes? A Macintosh or a heavy coat, sir?”
“Please, don’t bother me!”
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“It’s but five centigrade outside, sir, I guess the heavy,” deduced the butler
helping the professor with it.
“Gloves, sir?” he called out following his master who didn’t hear him being
already in the street.
That year, the end of October, was unusually chilly and wet. The cold north
wind had stripped trees of remnants of prematurely desiccated leaves. There were
puddles and water everywhere. Rare passersby plodded ahead with their heads bent
and with their collars turned up to shelter themselves from stinging sharp droplets
of rain, or held their umbrellas firmly with both hands, the umbrellas which were
torn in every direction by violent gusts of wind. Occasionally a passing automobile
splattered muddy puddles, or a horse drawn coach lazily rode by lit with two dim
yellow lanterns, whereas the rain beat its incessant staccato on its leathery hood.
Doctor Rafael subconsciously buttoned up his overcoat. He was walking
straight ahead, without aim.
“How could she do this to me?” he repeated several times.
Hadn’t she realized that she thus had bereaved him of everything, that she
had deprived him of the purpose of living? And why right now? On account of one
or another young fellow she had met. If only he could have been assured that he’d
cherish her, would never wrong her and would make her happy? She had
mentioned only his first name, John.
Professor Wolf, in frenzy, scoured his brains for the names, first of friends
and acquaintances, but couldn’t come up with an answer. Perhaps he was a
scoundrel, a tramp, a cheat and a liar, who’d abandon her at the first fortuitous
moment, or a slick con artist Casanova who had dazed her with falsehoods and
deluded her with bogus sentiments and empty promises. He for sure expects to roll
in money. What will happen when he learns that Beata hadn’t taken with her even
her personal jewelry? He has to be a refined type of bastard. Certainly such rogues
must be unmasked to prevent a scandalous disaster when there’s still time. Yes, I
shall hunt him down! The higher authorities ought to be notified: the police, the
detective agencies, wanted posters …
Propelled by such stimulating notion he surveyed the area. He remembered
that over the second or third crossing there was a police station.
He swiftly moved in that direction, though taking a dozen or so steps he
turned back.
What’s the use of finding him? She’ll never yield to me. Hadn’t she written
that she had never loved me, that she had been unsettled by my superiority, my
wealth and my fame, and obviously by my love? She had been tactful enough to
spell it directly. Was it right for him to thus judge her arbitrarily, to decide upon
her future? She prefers a mere existence, just to be with him. What arguments can
one put forth to convince a woman to rejoin the husband she had never loved and
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came to loath? Furthermore, hadn’t he too rashly jumped to the conclusion that the
other one was an outcast of society and an avaricious ruffian? Beata would never
fall for such a man. She had habitually been drawn to idealists and visionary
romantics. Even had read to Mary-Jo for hours on end poems and romances,
connotations of which a six year old couldn’t have possibly comprehended. She
had read it for her own delectation.
The man she had eloped with seemed to be a young romantic dreamer,
probably without any means of subsistence. Where and how she had managed to
befriend him? Why she had never even once alluded to his name? Then one day,
out of the blue, she had absconded with him - abandoning an adoring spouse who
had been faithful like a slave to her. Such a cruel, inhuman act he of course didn’t
deserve.
Had he ever crossed her even once? Could he ever wrong or betray the one
he loved? Never! Never even in thoughts! After all, she was his first and only love.
It has been not ten whole years yet. How clearly in retrospect he envisaged the day
they had met by coincidence, and how he had blessed that coincidence since then
till present time, blessed every morning and evening, every hour and minute as he
beheld her and rejoiced in thoughts that he’d be feasting his eyes on her again and
again. Years ago, when he had been an aspiring assistant, supervising the anatomy
class in a dissecting ward, outside an elderly pedestrian had been run over by a
lorry. He had administered the first-aid to the unfortunate, who had sustained both
broken legs. The elderly gentleman had implored him to be circumspect breaking
the bad news to his wife, who had a heart condition, and to his young
granddaughter. The door of a small apartment in Old Town had been opened by
Beata.
Several months later they had been engaged. She was then but seventeen.
She was thin and pale, wearing cheap mended clothes and worn-out stockings,
living almost in poverty. Her parents had lost their lives and property in the last
war (WWI). Her grandfather until his tragic misfortune had supported his sickly
wife and granddaughter tutoring students and supervising courses of foreign
languages. Her grandmother, before she had followed her husband to the family
crypt in the cemetery of Powazki, had imbued in Beata the past glory of the noble
family of Gontynski - the only grand possession bequeathed upon the progeny regaling about palaces, masquerade balls, hunting parties and dresses delivered
from Paris. Beata had listened spellbound, whereas her dreamy eyes had expressed
a tinge of regret for the lost past, for the fable times which would never return.
In such moments he’d squeeze her slender hand and assure her:
“I will make it happen again, all for you, Beata! You’ll see. Jewels, gowns
from Paris, masquerade parties, servants!”
13
What about himself? He was the proud owner of one cheap suitcase, living
in a sparsely furnished bachelor’s apartment, with a few books on medical subjects
to show for and a modest salary of a professor’s assistant.
With a will of steel, unwavering faith and a burning ardor he was bent on
fulfilling his promise to Beata. The grueling struggle had commenced with
shuffling for a position, a private practice and affluent clientele. Acquired
knowledge, tremendous talent, steadfast character and solid work - honest and
obstinately persistent work - had proved to be of merit. Aside from it, a helpful
measure of good luck had been a major factor too, and with it his fame grew
substantially together with his income. On his thirty-sixth birthday, she had
bestowed on him another precious gift, a baby-daughter.
In memory of her great-grandmother, Yolanda Gontynska, the baby had
been christened Mary-Yolanda and thus nicknamed Mary-Jo or Mariola.
Remembering Mariola Professor Wolf felt painful pangs in his heart. He
often deliberated whom did he love more. When she had begun to speak her first
word had been “tapa,” a contraction of “ta-ta” and “pa-pa.”
And that way she had accustomed herself to call him since. When she was
two years old she had been stricken with scarlet fever. When she had recovered, he
had sworn the oath that from that moment on he’d treat needy children for free. In
his clinic, which was always swamped with rich patients, several rooms were
allocated for children, free of charge, for goodness sake and in memoriam of the
good omen of his daughter’s recovery.
And presently he lost her in an unimaginable act of one’s egoism.
“You shall restore her to me, I tell you!” he shouted from the top of his
lungs, his feet wide apart.
Passersby craned their necks at him, yet he had never been conscious of it.
The law is on my side. You have abandoned me, so I’ll force you to forfeit
Mariola. The law of the land says so - so says the moral law. Admit it freely you
are unfaithful, despicable and merciless! Could there have been more injurious
behavior ever? Confess! You had been irked by wealth and the cream of society.
Dear Beata, had you ever been in want of anything? Assuredly not of love, darling
Beata, because you couldn’t find another man who could love you like I did. None!
Not in this world!
He stumbled, nearly falling on his face, shuffling along an unpaved road,
sinking his feet up to the ankles in the mud. Here and there in the mud were stuck
bricks and large stones on which inhabitants of this quarter of town skipped in their
endeavor to get home with their feet dry. Sparingly placed street gas lamps issued
dim, pale blue light. On the right side there was a wide paved alley with large
buildings and business establishments. Professor Wolf headed there, dragging his
feet slower and slower.
14
He was not particularly physically tired, but his legs all of a sudden became
restive and unbearably heavy; being thoroughly wet he felt piercing cold with
every gust of wind.
Abruptly from nowhere like a ghost a human form loomed in front of him.
“Illustrious sir,” the apparition addressed him in a hoarse voice, blocking
the passage. “Will you be good enough to lend me a fiver on investment in the
Polish Alcohol Monopoly with guaranties of its qualities and potency?”
“What?” the professor was completely at a loss.
“Do not ‘what’ your veneration, or you’ll be requited with ‘what’ yourself.
The Holy Scripture says if you ‘what’ thy neighbors they will ‘what’ thee with the
same ‘what.’ I mean you a noble citizen of a thirty million strong seafaring
nation.”
“What do you want?”
“Health, happiness and all the luck in the world, in addition, I’d like to fill
my empty stomach with a 45% of alcohol concoction together with a certain
amount of pork cadaver locally dubbed ‘kielbasa!’”
The ragamuffin swayed from side to side. His unshaven face covered with
several days of growth reeked with vodka.
The professor reached into his pocket and handed over several silver coins.
“Here!”
“Doubly rewarded will be those who give willingly,” sententiously remarked
the drunkard. “Grazie caro mio! Allow me, my generous benefactor in exchange to
offer you something even more valuable - my company. Yes, you’ve heard me
right my good man. Don’t you think you deserve such a distinction? Noblesse
oblige! It’ll be my treat. You are drenched to the bone signore and freezing cold.
You are kindly invited into my abode where you’ll warm up and rest. To be strictly
factual, worthy sir, I have never acquired an abode; though I’ve acquired education
and vast life experience. What’s a mere dwelling in comparison with theoretical
and practical erudition? So magnanimously I’ll gladly share a quantum of my
wisdom with you, my princely mate. I’ll enlighten you also in my topographic
prowess of these parts of the Capital; namely I’m privileged to know where at this
hour one can find a joint where one can drink without breaking in; at Mr.
Drozdzyk’s at the corner of Polanecki and Witebska streets.”
Doctor Wolf had readily agreed to have a drink or two. He felt cold and
tired, and the monotonous droll of the drunk philosopher although confounding
began to appease him. In spite of himself he grasped bits and pieces of his
babbling, which slowly began to assuage the conscience of that deeply injured,
unhappy wretch, the conscience that stirred under the skull the painful
recollections.
15
The day was breaking with the sky brightening up in the east, when after
prolonged banging on shutters they were finally able to gain entrance into a small
store saturated with the odor of beer, herring and kerosene. In the larger room in
the back of the store, even more fetid than the first, filled with the smoke of cheap
sour tobacco sat several half-drunk men. The proprietor, a squat ruffian with the
square face of a sleeping bulldog, wearing a dirty shirt and unbuttoned vest without
asking placed on an empty table a bottle of vodka and a knocked porcelain plate
with slivers of quite unappetizing cold cuts.
Notwithstanding it was cozy here and blissfully warm, and his cold, numb
fingers were thawing up so rapidly it was painful. The first glass of vodka warmed
up his throat and stomach. The incidental companion never ceased talking, whereas
the drunkards in the corner paid no attention to the newcomers. One of them was
snoring with his head on the table, whereas the other three periodically erupted into
a jumble of unintelligible words, undoubtedly arguing.
The second glass of vodka brought a welcome relief.
“Well, no one knows me here, no one is paying any attention and none of
them has even inkling that…”
“You see, my princely sir,” soliloquized the unshaven companion.
“Hell claimed Napoleon and Alexander the Great. And why you ask me in a
loud voice? I tell you why; it’s not such a big deal to become somebody? A real
trick is to be nobody, nothing at all, a tiny insect under the collar of Providence.
I’m telling you this, I, Sam Obiedzinski will never fall down from a pedestal flat
on my face, given that I’ll never climb up there in the first place. Pedestals, ladders
of success are for hare-brained asses, amico mio, whereas incumbency, beliefs and
convictions are but balloons from which gas sooner or later will escape. You might
mention a rear fortuity and a bit of luck. I agree with you, though probably you and
I will croak first never tasting it. Beware of the balloons, comrades!”
He raised his hand holding an empty bottle and called out:
“Mr. Drozdzyk, provider of delight, shepherd of the lost, supplier of
conscience and oblivion, another one!”
The sullen proprietor unhurriedly trundled in with a bottle of vodka. With
his huge palm he slammed its bottom and thus uncorked placed it in front of them.
Professor Wolf perfunctorily downed his drink and shuddered with disgust.
He was not a drinker and the foul taste of ordinary vodka revolted him. On the
other hand, he already felt a slight dizziness in his head and desired to lose himself
in it completely.
“We were blessed with gray cells in our brains,” expounded Sam
Obiedzinski, “for the sole purpose to joggle them between conscience and
oblivion. For how can one explain the drama of our intellect inferring that it’s
absurd in itself, a freak of nature and unnecessary ballast attached to the tail of our
16
animal existence. I’m asking you, a conscience creature burdened with two kilos of
brain, to what purpose it was bestowed on us? Where does it fit in the grand
scheme of the universe? There’s a paradox. You can’t move one finger; take one
step without clear and comprehensive purpose of doing it. Am I right? Meanwhile
you are born and in a couple of decades you are bound to make millions, billions of
various deeds, you struggle, work, learn, fight, fall down and rise, you laugh and
you cry and despair, you sing and dance, use up as much energy as the Warsaw
electric utility plant, and damn it, what for? You my friend, have not an inkling
why you are keeping at it? So you’d better turn to the only reliable institution of
information your own brain, alas it’d just helplessly screw its eyes. Where there’s
the sense and logic, tell me where?”
He laughed uproariously and drained his glass in one gulp. “What’s the
purpose of having a brain while it’s useless in performing its tasks
comprehensively? I know you’ll respond that’s all bunk, that the brain’s
preeminent role encompasses governing functions of life. Reasoning and meaning
of life don’t belong in its department. Agreed? It manages the biological life, but
can it explicate it to us? No, it can’t with the exception of the most elementary
animal instincts. Tell me for what reason we have inherited that lump under our
skulls? I’m asking you worthy sir, what for? Can it logically grasp an idea or a
thought? Has it ever helped a man to understand himself, or at least to help us to
discern with conviction which of us is a mean or a kind person, an idealist or a
materialist? No, a hundredfold not! It tells me for instance that I prefer pork to
beef, but for that I don’t need a brain, a mere tongue will suffice. Now, concerning
people, neighbors? Can it teach them what’s right and what’s wrong? Yes? No? I’d
stake all my possessions that under your forehead so far have not germinated even
one axiom of annotation pertaining to my intriguing entity, although we have been
entertaining ourselves in the period of time it takes to drink up two bottles of
vodka! Besides, have you ever come up with any sensible conclusion? Forget
about me, I mean about people you are on friendly terms, like your father, brother,
a wife, a friend… No, I bet you have not. People wear impregnable masks which
are difficult to pierce, to probe their inner sanctum. Let’s drink to our bachelor’s
way.”
He clicked his glass with Wolf’s and drained it as if it were water.
“Let’s assume you are keen, for instance, to find out how your lovely dame
looks au naturel, maestro, you can espy her through a keyhole in the bathroom.
You may discover that she has flat chest and has thin thighs. It may even surprise
you, but between us you’ll learn nothing about her, because when she takes her
clothes off under them she has another cover which she never divests from and
which will virtually remain impenetrable to you. Plain truth, I’ll swear to it.
Without second thought you’ll tell me you have encountered intimate moments
17
when you were lucky to peek through the sleeve or the collar, yet in reality it was
not luck only the precipitation of catastrophe, owing to that the cover tore itself
asunder, burst its seams exposing its holes and hiatuses. All right chief, let us
analyze your present situation. How about it? Without doubt something serious has
been troubling you? Am I right?”
“Right,” the professor nodded.
“Why does it always have to occur to me?” Obiedzinski erupted
impulsively. “Man in quest of peace of mind cannot move one step without
stumbling upon another victim of human folly, since the cause of every tragic
occurrence is inherently steeped in human stupidity. What did actually transpire to
you? Not the bloated balloon, the ladder of success or just plain bankruptcy? Have
you lost a cozy governmental position, or perhaps disillusionment? What? What
was that? A woman has been unfaithful to you.”
“She has left me.”
Obiedzinski’s eyes flared up in indignation.
“So what!” he roared. “What’s the big deal?”
“It’s a big deal to me!” the professor seized the other’s arm. “It’s everything,
everything to me!”
The above statement had been very convincing since Obiedziski had calmed
down, shrank in his seat and remained silent. Only several minutes later he
ventured in a quiet, lamenting tone:
“Life stinks not to mention that I’ve used up all my luck to boot. While I
detest and abhor passions and emotions, fate throws my way another sentimental
casualty. To the devil with all of it! Anyhow, it’s all relative… One’s skull can
withstand a cudgel, whereas the other’s cracks when he slips on a banana peel.
You see my friend, there’s no correlation, no standard to it. Drink brother! Vodka
happens to be an excellent tonic for any problem. Let’s drink to our bachelor’s
way. Skoal!”
He poured again.
“Down the hatch,” he urged the professor, pressing the glass into his hands.
“Hey Drozdzyk, fetch another one.”
The proprietor dragged himself of his lair in the alcove and delivered the
next one, after which he turned off the light. Through the windows giving way to
an unkempt courtyard, a dreary, overcast new day peered inside. The drunken
company from the corner, abandoning their slumbering crony, spilled outside.
Obiedzinski resting his face in his hands with his elbows on the table carried
on in a drunken stupor:
“Women, my princely sir, are coming in all shapes and sizes. One will stick
to you like a leech and will suck you dry, another will bankrupt you, or will pull
you down and will drag you in the mud. There you have it, the life: laundering,
18
cleaning, diapers, cooking and such. I’m not unreasonable in my assumption that
all of the above depends on a man. One with indifference will blink his eyes,
whereas another will spin like a mad dog and drop dead. So tell me what genus of
man are you, amico mio? You have to endure; be steadfast and resilient like a tree.
If they peel off bark, you’ll produce a fresh one, if they tear off a branch, you’ll
grow it back. Although at this disagreeable juncture I’d bet all my possessions that
they uprooted you and discarded you into a desert.”
Professor Wolf pierced him with his eyes and uttered:
“Yes, veritably uprooted.”
“You can judge from your own predicament that strength and obstinacy of
will amount to nothing unless one stands on a firm base, for when it becomes soft
and fluid it’ll eventually disintegrate. Archimedes stated that, didn’t he? What did
he say? Oh, to hell with him; what was I referring to? The roots, even the strongest
roots will never hold without a solid substratum. There you have it, the life.”
His speech had become muddled and confused. Finally he swayed, leaned on
the wall and fell asleep.
Professor Wolf, by now semiconscious, repeated whispering: “Like an
uprooted tree.”
He dozed off though not for long, being unceremoniously awakened with a
prod under his ribs. With difficulty he opened his eyes and precariously swayed in
the chair attempting to keep his balance. There was still an ample amount of
alcohol in his veins. On the table materialized another bottle of vodka, and round it
aside of his drunken philosopher companion sat three unknown to him individuals.
Professor Wolf slowly regained his faculties, enough to surmise where he was and
what he was doing there. Suddenly with a sharp and painful throb he recalled
Beata. He sprang to his feet and overturning chairs like a blind man rushed toward
the door.
“Hey, Your Excellency!” the proprietor shouted at him.
“What?”
“The bill, forty zlotys.”
Wolf perfunctorily reached for his wallet, took out of it a large crispy
banknote and handed it over to Drozdzyk.
“Wow! Look, the gent is loaded!” whistled one of the drinking guests.
“Shut your yap!” barked the second of them.
“Drozdzyk!” threw in the third, “don’t play a fool and give the guest his
change. Look at him, a creep!”
The proprietor cast him a vicious glance, counted out the rest, gave it to
Wolf, turned on his heel and mumbled angrily:
“And you drunkards mind your own business.”
19
Wolf was not interested in their affairs. He went outside. Dense sticky
snowflakes were falling, but the sidewalks and the streets were just wet,
considering that it melted in no time at all. The street ahead of him was filled with
a long row of horse drawn wagons loaded with coal.
“She has abandoned me, she has forsaken me,” Wolf mulled in his head. He
was stumbling and tottering. “Like an uprooted tree,” then he quickened his pace
as if trying to escape a posse.
“Is the worthy gentleman on his way to Grochow?” he heard a voice nearby.
“Allow me, sir, to recommend Rawska Street. It’s a shortcut and less muddy.”
He recognized one of Drozdzyk’s drunkards.
“I don’t care one way or another,” he impassively waved his hand.
“It’s on my way so we can walk together. It’s jollier in company. Apparently
something unpleasant has befallen you?”
Professor Wolf didn’t answer.
“That’s life, though I’ve discovered a perfect antidote for grief, trials and
tribulations. Drown it in vodka! It goes without saying not in a joint like
Drozdzyk’s, who is by the way a cheat and serves rancid cold cuts. Not far from
here in Rawska Street there is a very respectable restaurant with music and young
waitresses and lots of fun, with comparable prices.”
They ambled in silence. The new acquaintance, who was shorter and leaner
than the doctor, took him under his arm and from time to time tilting his head sized
up Wolf from under his cap visor. A few minutes later he impatiently pulled the
doctor aside.
“Are we going there or not? As I’ve said the only way is to drench it.
There’s that restaurant. Let’s drop in for one.”
“Why not?” agreed Doctor Wolf, walking in step with his new companion.
The first swig of vodka had brought him no relief; on the contrary it sobered
his conscience, though the succeeding amended itself with a telling effect.
In an adjacent room customers diverted themselves singing accompanied by
a squealing accordion. Someone lit the gas lamps. Shortly two men attired like
common workers drifted in ushered by a fat waitress. They opened the third bottle.
All of a sudden from the room across came a strident, uproariously gay woman’s
laughter.
Professor Wolf jumped to his feet. Blood rushed into his head. For a moment
he stood there frozen stiff. He could swear he had recognized Beata’s voice. In a
violent move he brushed aside one of his boozing mates and in a few long strides
reached the door.
In a small room lit by two gas lamps, at the table covered with dirty linen sat
a portly looking ruffian and a freckled, chubby blond girl wearing a green hat.
20
Wolf slowly turned, rejoined his companions, slumped in the chair and
involuntarily burst out crying.
“Pour him another,” mumbled the one wearing a leather motorcycle cap.
“He has a strong head for drinking.”
He shook Doctor Wolf by the arm.
“Drink brother and forget all about it!”
At eleven as they were closing the restaurant, the jolly boozing mates had to
support Doctor Wolf, given that he was barely able to stand on his feet, swaying
his big torso, pulling them to one side and to the other. Wheezing and gasping from
strain luckily for them not far-off at the dark corner they spotted a covered coach.
Without a spare word they loaded Professor Wolf into it and squeezed themselves
inside, one following the other. The coachman whipped the horse.
Twenty minutes later they reached the outskirts of the metropolis. Here and
there on both sides of the road between fences glimpsed lights of kerosene lamps.
Eventually even those disappeared, whereas their nostrils were assailed by the foul
odor of a garbage dump. The coach had abruptly turned off the road and the clutter
of hooves ceased on the soft grassy field. They had arrived at the first pit.
“Stop here! This spot is as good as any,” spoke up one of them.
“Chuck him out right now,” resounded the other voice, from the sound of it
presumably their leader. Three pairs of hands had tightly clenched on an inert
body. In no time they had appropriated the contents of the doctor’s pockets.
Without much ado they had taken off his overcoat, jacket and vest. Suddenly
because of cold Professor Wolf had begun to sober up. He called out:
“What are you doing? What’s going on here?”
Simultaneously he staggered on his wobbly feet. At that very moment as he
had gained his equilibrium he had been viciously struck on the head. Without a
moan he sank to the ground like a log and rolled into a deep pit that was used for
garbage disposal.
“Damn it!” one of them cursed in anger. “Why didn’t you hold him?”
“What for?”
“Stupid ass, you slide to the bottom for his shoes and trousers.”
“You go yourself, you dumb ass, if you want it.”
“Who’s a dumb ass? Say it again!” the first one came nearer with his fist
raised.
It looked as an affray was about to begin for real, but the phlegmatic tone of
the coachman disarmed hostilities among the robbers. He pronounced quietly,
smoking a cigarette:
“I’m telling you, we’d better be off. You don’t wish to get apprehended
here, do you?”
21
The robbers hadn’t argued with him. They precipitously seated themselves
inside, and the coachman cracked the whip.
As they reached the primary road the coachman slowed to a stop. From
under the seat he pulled out a piece of old sackcloth and cleaned with it the wheels
of the coach, climbed back and grunted at the horse, leaving behind the empty and
quiet garbage dump.
In reality no one wandered here during the day, and at night there was even
more reasons to avoid this place. Only in the morning one detected a modicum of
human activity at the garbage disposal pits. The peasants from the neighboring
villages, employed by the city, arrived, dawdling, with wagons loaded with the
stinking refuse, poured it into the pits, and with thus earned few coins returned to
their hovels. The more scrupulous of them deposited waste into the pits, as they
had been instructed, others taking advantage at the lack of supervision dumped it
straight onto the ground.
Old Paul Bankowski, a farmer from the village of Wolka, was one of those
honest. He had customarily driven to the very edge of the pit before emptying his
wagon. He was never in a perpetual hurry. The horse needed rest since it was a
long way back, and he, too, needed a breather being afflicted with asthma.
Having finished with the refuse he was covering the seat with a straw
mattress when from the bottom of the pit he could swear he heard a human moan.
He crossed himself superstitiously, leaned over the pit and strained his ears. There
was another moan even louder.
“Who’s there?” he called out. “What the devil?”
“Water,” stuttered a weak voice.
The voice sounded familiar to Paul Bankowski. Last evening on the way to
the city he had run into Matthew Piotrowski from Byczyniec, just like him
employed in carting refuse, and also using the very pit, who habitually got drunk.
For sure he had got tight again and had fallen into the pit, maybe even had broken
an arm or a leg, and presently was lying there helpless.
He straightened himself up. It was still quite dark outside, barely dawned in
the east. If Piotrowski had left the wagon here, his horse undoubtedly had dragged
itself back to Byczyniec.
“Hello, hey down there! Mr. Piotrowski?” he called out. “You fell there or
what?”
The only response was a stifled moan.
“Or maybe he was done in by the city slickers,” the farmer was apprehensive
even to think about it. He had never expected much from the city dwellers.
He thoroughly inspected the rim of the dugout, pondered for a while and
went back to the wagon where he untied a piece of rope and a bridle, linked them
together; attaching it to the wagon axle he lowered himself into the pit.
22
“Mr. Piotrowski, where are you? It’s dark I can hardly see anything,” he
intoned aloud.
“Water,” he heard a voice close by. He bent over and groped an arm.
“There’s no water here. Where am I going to find water for you? You must
stand up. And where’s your wagon? Your horse is probably at home by now. No,
it’s no use. I can’t lift you up all by myself. You are too heavy. Try to get up.”
He stomped refuse with his feet, bent his knees and with all power he was
able to muster attempted to pull up an inert weight.
“You have to aid me, stand up! Alone I can’t budge your bulk. Try harder
unless you prefer to die here.”
His hands touched the sticky, blood soaked hair of the victim’s head.
“You were robbed, weren’t you? They’ve left you for dead.”
“I don’t know.”
The farmer deliberated hard.
“Dear God, I can’t leave him here to die. Listen, I have a rope with me; try
to push yourself up while I’ll pull.”
The prostrated man evidently was regaining his faculties. He stirred himself
once or twice alas wasn’t able to get up, although farmer Bankowski pulled him up
as hard as he could.
“This won’t do, no sir,” he stated. “We need help. The others will be
arriving soon.”
He climbed up and several minutes later returned with two others, informing
them that the Warsaw rogues had robbed Matthew Piotrowski from Byczyniec and
had left him here for dead. The two farmers without much ado affixed a rope round
Professor Wolf’s waist and slowly hoisted him up. Then they gently placed him in
Bankowski’s wagon. The victim recovered sufficiently to sit up and complain of
cold.
“Creeps, they even lifted his clothes,” cursed one of the peasants.
“Shouldn’t we take him first to the police station?” suggested another.
Bankowski shook his head.
“It’s not our business. I’ll drive him to Byczyniec, it’s on the way. Let his
sons determine what to do next, police or no police.”
“True! It’s their affair not ours,” the other two consented.
The old farmer pushed under the wounded victim a straw mattress, covered
him with a horse blanket, sat on a bare wooden seat and jerked the bridles. Having
reached the main thoroughfare he positioned himself comfortably and succumbed
into an easy slumber. His horse knew well the way back home.
He woke up in a bright daylight. He rubbed his eyes and looked back.
Behind the seat in his wagon lay a man unknown to him. A large, fleshy swollen
face, black hair stuck to his temple with coagulated blood. Bankowski could swear
23
to God that he had never in his life laid his eyes on this man. Definitely he was not
Piotrowski from Byczyniec, although Piotrowski was also a large man. From under
an old blanket with holes protruded a torn white shirt, mud stained trousers and a
pair of elegant patent shoes.
“What the devil!” he began to imprecate not knowing what to do.
He had deliberated and ruminated upon the mysterious predicament. Finally
he bent back and shook the passenger by the arm.
“Hey, mister, wake up! Damn it! Now I’ll get into a fix on your account.
Wake up!”
The passenger opened his eyes and rose on his elbows.
“Who are you?” inquired the farmer.
“Where am I? What am I doing here?” demanded the passenger.
“You are in my wagon, can’t you see it?”
“Yes, I can see that,” mumbled the man and sat up with difficulty, pulling up
his legs. “How did I get here?”
Bankowski turned aside and spat, stalling for time.
“How do I know?” He shrugged his shoulders. “I took a nap, that’s when
you probably climbed on my wagon. You are from Warsaw, aren’t you?”
“What?”
“I was asking whether you were from Warsaw, because if you were it’d be
pointless for you to take a ride to Byczyniec or Wolka. I’m going home to Wolka,
and that’s not your address. You see, over there beyond that windmill I’ll turn off
this road. Are you deaf; are you getting off or what? From here to the city is at
least ten kilometers.”
“To the city?” queried the man with a confused expression in his eyes.
“Yes, to the city, to Warsaw. Are you from Warsaw?”
The man protruded his anxious eyes, swept his forehead and said:
“I don’t know.”
Bankowski almost fell off his seat. He was certain that he was dealing with a
knave. He surreptitiously touched a pouch with money hidden inside his shirt and
furtively craned his neck back. Not far behind there were dawdling other horse
drawn wagons.
“Don’t take me for a fool,” he barked, “telling me you don’t know where
you are from.”
“I’m telling you the truth, I don’t know.”
“Your brains have got muddled up, and you don’t know who has clubbed
you on the head either?”
“No, I don’t know.”
“Then get the hell out of my wagon!” cried out the farmer quite exasperated.
“Get off!”
24
He pulled on the bridles and the wagon came to a stop. The passenger
obediently alighted and stood there seemingly lost, looking in every direction.
Bankowski eventually became convinced that the wounded man bore no ill
intentions toward him; nevertheless he had opted once more to appeal to his
conscience.
“Listen, I’ve been nice to you, I’ve treated you like a Christian and you treat
me like I was a dog. Phew! What a lout? I’m asking him whether he’s from
Warsaw and he tells me that he doesn’t know. And you perhaps don’t even know
your own mother or even your own name?”
The stranger stared at him with his eyes wide-open.
“What’s my name? I…I don’t know.”
The muscles on his face tensed and twitched nervously as from fright.
“Phew!” Bankowski spat again; he in anger used a whip on his horse. The
wagon trundled forward.
A few minutes later the farmer craned his neck back. The wounded man was
slowly walking on the side of the road, trailing him.
“Phew!” he repeated and whipped the horse into gallop.
25
26
CHAPTER III
The police sergeant at the Chotimow post, Victor Kania, sat idly at his desk
which was neatly covered with the green paper padding. He was yawning from
time to time staring dispassionately through the window. The police post was
located in the last house at the outskirts of this small town. From its office window
unfolded the fields already overgrown with lush verdure, the shore of a small lake
where fishermen were setting nets, the dark rim of a dense forest with a visible
streak of smoke wafting from Hasfeld’s saw-mill, and the road leading to that very
mill, which presently was treaded upon by his subaltern, policeman Sobczak
accompanied by a tall, haggard looking bearded individual.
Sobczak trundled reeling like a duck, carrying a large piece of plywood
under his arm. The bearded companion in all probability was a worker from the
wood mill. Sergeant Kania was absolutely convinced that he had never seen that
man before; he knew by sight everybody in the area in the radius of ten kilometers.
Considering that the policeman carried the large piece of plywood all by himself
struck him as little odd. Ostensibly Sobczak hadn’t availed himself of the presence
of the bearded companion; hence, Kania deduced that the bearded individual
accompanied the policeman not of his own will.
There were variegated causes why people were brought to the Chotimow
police post: mostly for fighting, a theft or poaching. Occasionally they were lucky
to snare a bigger game: a bandit or a fraudulent manipulator who purposely
avoided primary roads in attempt to reach safely the German border.
The bearded giant escorted by Sobczak in all probability had been involved
in some petty affair, given that Sobczak didn’t pay much mind to him and hadn’t
even cuffed him.
Shortly after the door swung open and both of them entered.
The skinny individual took off his cap and stood modestly by the door.
Sobczak saluted and reported:
“Sir, this man solicited work at Hasfeld’s saw-mill. They hired him and later
they notified me that he had no documents, and that he doesn’t even remember his
name or where he was born.”
“We’ll see to all of that,” mumbled Sergeant Kania, beckoning the bearded
man.
“Where are your documents?”
“Sobczak, frisk him!”
The policeman meticulously searched the worn-out clothes and placed on
the sergeant’s table all he had dug out from the detainee’s pockets: a small
27
penknife, several coins, piece of string, two buttons and an aluminum spoon. He
also probed behind the flaps of the detainee’s boots.
“Where are you coming from?” queried the sergeant.
“From Czumki, county Sursk.”
“From Czumki?”
“Yes, I’m looking for work. In Czumki I was employed in their saw-mill.
After they closed that mill they told me I might get lucky in Chotimow.”
“What is the name of the proprietor of that mill in Czumki?”
“Fibich.”
“How long did you work there?”
“Half a year.”
“Were you born there, I mean in Sursk County?”
The bearded giant impassively stared into space.
“I don’t know, I mean I don’t remember.”
The post commander appraised him belligerently.
“Don’t play the game with me! Literate?”
“Yes sir.”
“Where did you go to school?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Your name and surname?” shouted at him Kania, loosing patience.
The bearded man didn’t answer.
“Are you deaf?”
“No sir, I’m not deaf, and please stop bellowing at me. I’ve done nothing
amiss.”
“So why do you hide the truth?”
“I’m hiding nothing. I’m telling you the integral truth. Perhaps I was born
without a name. People always ask me: what’s your name? Sir, I swear to God I
don’t know my name.”
“So you contend that you have never had documents.”
“Never.”
“How did you get employed without documents?”
“In towns they ordinarily demanded them; in villages they didn’t pay much
attention to that. I just told them whatever name came into my head. In Czumki I
was Joseph Beard, however it was only a nickname I chose. Believe me, sir; I’m
telling you the truth. I swear to God, sir, I’ve done nothing wrong. My conscience
is clean.”
“We’ll see about that.”
“You can write, sir, to those who gave me jobs. Apart from that, as God is
my witness, I’ve never stolen as long as I live, not one penny.”
28
The commander pondered for a spell. In several instances he had dealt with
crafty, wily detainees who as a rule had concealed their family names, but without
batting an eyelid had provided him with whatever aliases, whereas this one
stubbornly insists that he has no name at all.
“Where’s your family?”
“I don’t have family,”
“Have you ever been on the other side of the law?”
“Yes sir, twice.”
“What for?”
“For habitual vagrancy, in both cases, sir; last year in Bydgoszcz I was
sentenced to one month, and three years ago in Radom they gave me two weeks for
it, in both instances unjustly though. Man soliciting work is not a beggar or a
tramp. To be quite honest they also insisted on documents. I even begged them
there in the court, in jail and at the police station to issue me some identification
certificate. They refused claiming that was not their field of governance. What else
there was for me to do?”
He cleared his throat and spread his arms in despair.
“Please, let me go, sir. I’ll swear to it, I’m not a criminal.”
“I can’t allow you go scot-free. Conforming to the regulations you’ll be
escorted to the county office, where they will rule upon your case. So sit down and
be quiet. I have to prepare a report.”
He pulled a sheet of paper out of the drawer and began to write. He had
gathered thoughts for a while, because not knowing the name and the address of
the detainee only complicated further his assignment. Eventually he finished with
it and raised his eyes, scrutinizing the bearded detainee. The grayish beard and hair
bespoke of his age to be near fifty. The vagrant sat still, vacuously gazing into
space. His frightfully emaciated body together with hollow cheeks gave the
impression of a skeleton. Only his large, toil worn hands restlessly twitched and
twisted with anomalous jittery reflexes.
“You’ll spend the night here,” said Kania. “Tomorrow we’ll take you to the
county office.”
He got up and added:
“Don’t fret. At the most you’ll sit out a couple of days for vagrancy and
they’ll let you go.”
“If there’s no other way…” glumly stammered the bearded man.
“Now, come with me!”
He opened the door to a small room with barred windows. On the floor by
the wall there was a thick straw mattress in lieu of a bunk. The door was made of
stout oak boards.
29
Once the door had been shut, the bearded detainee languidly lay down on the
mattress and started to reflect upon his ill-fated predicament. Both of the
policemen appeared to be honest people, alas the merciless paragraphs of the law
had compelled them to do mean deeds. Why did they take his freedom away? Why
do they perpetually treat him like a felon? Was it indeed a necessity, a prerequisite
to possess documents and a name? Can a name or an identity card, or want of them
alter a man?
They had elucidated to him numerous times that it was absurd and unheard
not to have a name. In the end he had always agreed with their logic, but
concurrently with the above he had dreaded the mere notion to dwell upon it.
Every time as he had reverted to it he had been overpowered by a bizarre and eerie
feeling, as though he had forgotten something meaningful, something utterly
important and consequential. Then abruptly the thoughts would race in frenzy
dispersing themselves, or sometimes focusing into an entwined mass would
stampede like spooked wild beasts, twirling, rolling faster and faster, without any
sense or purpose, without substance, the tiny monsters only to coalesce into a huge
inert bale of cotton crammed into his skull.
In such moments he was paralyzed with fear. He believed he’d go mad; his
arduous attempts were inefficient to avert the approaching torture of his mind.
Nevertheless in this infernal chaos he had never completely lost his consciousness.
Somewhere in the depth of his brain a sensitive apparatus detected with calm
indifference each symptom, each separate phase of anxiety and thus perpetually
was inflicting upon itself despondency and pain.
In vain with all the strength of his will he attempted to extricate himself
from the quicksand bog of his mind. If he at least could stop thinking and
somehow distract his mind. But he found the only relief in physical pain, a slight
relief. He bit his teeth into his flesh, bit his hands and smashed his head into a wall,
till utter exhaustion, till he passed out.
Then he would lie inertly, completely spent, almost dead, intimidated by
insensitive animal instincts of his memory. He feared it might at any time
imprudently rend its covers, disclose and permeate the shades and twilights of the
past, the nightmares of obscurity which he couldn’t pierce or fathom, and which
enticed him like an open abyss.
That’s why interrogations exceedingly tormented him, compounding anxiety
and incertitude. Yet to his surprise once he had been left alone he was spared the
dreading fomenting tortures of his mind, and was almost grateful to his jailers for
having him locked up.
Irrespective of the above being detained and subsequently interrogated
usually led to another recurrence of the dreaded assault on his brain, and even the
mere threat of it necessitated finding the right solution for the future, namely the
30
precipitous procurement of documents. Since it was impossible for him to obtain
them legally, he had to resort to other ways.
He had not the slightest idea how to go about it, but was firmly resolved to
do anything even stealing.
Next day early in the morning he was transported to the county seat in the
distance of fifteen kilometers. The court offices were located in a large brick
edifice. The policeman left the bearded vagrant on the ground floor in custody of a
warder who guarded there several other felons.
An obese young official presided at the table covered with a green cloth and
strewn with numerous folders and documents. He judged rashly in an arbitrary
fashion. When it was the bearded vagrant’s turn to face him, he gave him a
skeptical glance, grew suspicious and enjoined him to wait in an adjacent room.
From boredom the bearded detainee impassively observed the court clerk at his
work. On the edge of the desk in reach of his arm he saw a pile of sundry forms,
applications; documents with official stamps pasted on it, colorful notifications and
the bearded arrestee shuddered violently. Flanking it lay a small packet of papers
tied with a clip. On top of it there was a birth certificate. He leaned forward and
read. It was issued to one Anthony Kosiba, born in Kalisz. He counted the years,
fifty-two. Below there were stamps.
The bearded arrestee espied the warder who stood with his back turned to
him, engrossed in one poster or another on the wall. Stealthily he placed his cap on
the desk, covering these documents.
“Take your cap off my desk,” the elderly clerk roused in indignation. “Find
yourself another place.”
“I apologize, sir,” uttered the bearded detainee. He removed the cap from the
desk and together with it the packet of clipped documents, folded them and
secreted them into his pocket.
Obviously he couldn’t readily avail himself of thus obtained documents. He
was sentenced, for habitual vagrancy, to three weeks of confinement in the county
jail.
Three weeks later he walked out of the county jail and went into the world as
one Anthony Kosiba.
31
CHAPTER IV
The Ordyniec Manor was neither notable nor imposing enough for anybody
of importance to visit. The palace in its center, which had been burned down in the
last war, was overgrown with shrubs, nettle and thistle, its walls covered with moss
and mildew. After many years of neglect it was crumbling into rabble. The
proprietress, Duchess Dubantzev, the widow of a Petersburg court dignitary,
resided permanently in France, and had no desire to visit the old family haunt. The
steward, an old crank, Mr. Poleszkiewicz, took up two rooms in the adjacent
cottage where traces of ruin and neglect were less apparent.
On the other hand, the estate was surrounded by a vast, enchanting primeval
forest named the Ordyniec Wilderness Preserve, thousands and thousands of acres
of dense pine, fir, oak and beech, entwined with hazel wood and juniper, cut with
narrow paths on which one more often chanced to spot a wild boar or a deer than a
man. From high above that immense mass of trees resembled a scintillating green,
velvety blanket adorned with silvery studs and plates, because there was no dearth
of water in the preserve. Large and small lakes and ponds were linked together in
a maze of streams and brooks, which were tightly overgrown with willow and
alder as to suggest traveling by boat rather than on foot, as the ubiquitous forest
rangers availed themselves most of time.
The only road, which ran through the middle of the preserve, led to the
manor proper which had been built on the hillock of a small glade. The manor was
occupied by a game warden, Mr. John Oksza, the son of Fillip Oksza who for over
forty years had been in charge of the Ordyniec Preserve, and subsequently had
bequeathed upon his son not only his possessions but also his job. Oksza junior,
who had studied in Vilna and later in Warsaw, returned home with the diploma of
a forest ranger, a wife and a baby daughter. He had moved into the habitable wing
of the manor, and for the fifth consecutive year ruled absolutely over that primeval
jungle. Absolutely given that the steward, Mr. Poleszkiewicz, trusted him
implicitly in all matters, had never meddled into the rangers affairs, and if he in
rare instances visited the manor it was in the main a social imposition: to borrow a
book, have a chat with Mrs. Beata, to play a game of chess with John, or to take
the youngster, Mariola, horse riding, placing her in the saddle in front of him. By
and large he was their only visitor.
John Oksza had apparently also inherited a predilection for solitude. He
didn’t seek or crave the company of neighbors, whom by the way one had to look
for far and away, whereas people in these parts had learned long ago not to be
importunate.
32
He was a habitual home bird although still a young man, though to no one’s
surprise, since he had for a mate a beautiful wife, who, as warder Barczuk used to
say “was very accommodating,” an angel for a daughter and an abundance of
happiness.
That’s why he even disliked rare business trips to Braslaw, or heaven forbid
all the way to Vilna. He often procrastinated; invented excuses, perhaps also owing
to a fairly delicate nature these trips exceedingly tired him. It was a common
occurrence that when he had caught cold he coughed blood and was forced to stay
for days in bed. He was just and humane toward his subalterns, who pitied him.
Twice even doctors had to be brought in which was not an easy task braving the
eight-mile horseback hike through the unchartered wilderness. The rumor had it
that the young gamekeeper might never recover, whereas reality supported such a
supposition.
Summers are particularly beautiful, salubrious and inviting in the Ordyniec
Forest, with the pungent smell of resin, air like in an oven, and plethora of
miscellaneous ear deafening flies and gnats. The tops of tall, slender pine trees are
swaying majestically; wind rushes through the crowns of ancient oaks, moss thick
and soft like a carpet everywhere, and the bounty of nuts, berries and mushrooms another words a living paradise. And when autumn comes there is a quietude and
stillness throughout like in a church during the elevation. Trees stand as if lost in
thoughts not minding losing their gold and ruby leaves, which float and hover and
soar and fall. In winter snow covers everything high and deep and accumulates into
thick pillows on boughs and branches, and when one breathes in frosty air one
feels happy just being alive.
Then spring arrives. From the decaying forest soil, from ponds, lakes and
marshes raise cold vapors and fog. The trying times come upon the elderly, and
particularly upon the consumptives.
It was likewise with the young gamekeeper, John Oksza. He had survived
winter, but in March as snow commenced to melt his health was also melting
away. For the fourth consecutive week he was confined to bed and took reports of
his rangers in the bedroom. He had lost so much weight that one could scarcely
recognize him, whereas frequent coughing attacks and cold shivers rendered him
utterly exhausted and speechless, wheezing and sweating profusely.
On Saturday when the forest rangers had arrived, Mrs. Beata talked to them
in the kitchen.
“My husband is very weak, please do not inconvenience him today,” she
imparted upon them and burst into tears.
“Perhaps we ought to send for a doctor,” suggested one of them. “He could
make it easier for him to die.”
33
“He stubbornly refuses to send for a doctor,” she shook her head. “I’ve
begged him myself several times, alas he won’t let me.”
“I can bring the doctor in my coach,” offered the other one, “and we can tell
him that the doctor came for a visit, like dropped in on his way.”
It had ended on that note. Mrs. Beata wiped her tears and reentered the
bedroom. After countless sleepless nights she could barely drag her feet herself.
But as she had approached the bed she forced a smile and put on an upbeat attitude.
She had been terrified that John could read in her eyes the frightening, petrifying
and excruciating thoughts which were harrowing to her soul. As he had fallen
asleep, she knelt by the bed and prayed fervently.
“Almighty God, forgive me, please do not punish me this way. Please do not
wreak vengeance by taking him away from me. I’ve sinned. I’ve erred, but please
God, forgive me! I couldn’t help myself.”
Tears ran like a stream down her blanched face, and her lips moved
feverishly whispering unintelligible words.
John hadn’t slept long. He suffered another agonizing coughing seizure. On
the white towel there were bloody spots. He needed immediate attention: medicine
and ice.
Unexpectedly in the evening he improved a bit. The temperature fell. With
Beata’s help he managed to sit up. Without forcing him he drank a glass of sweet
cream and went on with a wan smile:
“I feel much better. I suppose I’ll live.”
“Certainly you will, Johnny! The crisis is over, that’s plainly obvious. You’ll
get stronger with every day and in a month or two you’ll fully recover.”
“I believe so, too. Is Mariola asleep?”
“No, she’s not. She’s still at her home work.”
“How can you manage to find time to tutor her?”
He had never liked to call her Mariola, and from the first had preferred
Marie, to which with time even Beata got used to.
He had been lost in thoughts for a while before pronouncing pensively:
“Good grief! How much I’ve wronged you and her, how much both of
you…”
“Johnny! Why are you telling me these horrible things?” She became
alarmed.
“Isn’t that the truth?”
“You don’t really believe it yourself. You have given us happiness, a good,
fulfilling and blissful life.”
He closed his eyes and whispered:
“I love you and adore you, Beata, stronger with each passing day, and only
that love and adoration for you are preventing me from dying.”
34
“You’ll live, you mustn’t die. Life without you will be worse for me than
death. Let’s not dwell upon sad things. The worst is behind us, thank God. Can you
guess what? I’m going to call Marie; she hasn’t seen you for quite a while. Let her
come, please!”
“No, no. She shouldn’t come here. Air is filled with microbes and I’m scared
enough for you exposing yourself to it inhaling it all the time, but for young lungs
it presents a real danger.”
“So let her stand at the door. Tell her something nice. You can’t imagine
how insistently she pleads with me to exchange few words with you.”
“All right, dear,” he finally consented.
Beata opened the door and called out:
“Marie! Daddy is asking for you.”
“Daddy!” an ecstatic scream came from the depth of the house, succeeded
by the rattle of quick steps.
The girl dashed inside and abruptly arrested herself on the spot. She hadn’t
seen him for several weeks, and the way his appearance had altered frightened her.
“Daddy feels much better, Marie,” Beata was quick to interject, “though you
can’t come near him. Before long he will be able to get up and both of you will
take your usual strolls in the forest.”
“How are you doing, dear Marie?” asked Oksza.
“Thank you, daddy, I’m fine. Did you hear, daddy, that old bent beech tree
by the Gray Brook has been almost washed away?”
“Washed away?”
“Yes. Mike contends that it’ll tumble in no time. He also told me that his
brother Gregory saw yesterday four moose at the Huminski Ford. They crossed it
arrayed in line like soldiers.”
“They must have come from the Red Forest.”
“Yes, Mike said so, too.”
“What about your math and physics? You are keeping up with it currently,
aren’t you?” he inquired, forcing an upbeat grin.
“As God is my witness, daddy,” she avowed and as proof initiated reciting a
long line of equations. After a short discourse Oksza bade the girl good night and
blew her a kiss.
His hand was frightfully emaciated and unnaturally white.
When Marie had left, he commented:
“How quickly this girl has grown up. She’s not even twelve yet and is
almost as tall as you. In the fall we’ll send her to a school in the town. I’m
expecting that before long the duchess will receive permission for felling trees, and
then we’ll be rolling in money.”
“God willing, only you’d better get on the mending side soon.”
35
“Yes, yes, I will I promise.” He agreed with her. “I must go about the
business, felling trees or not. I’d consider even to look for another job. It would be
hard for me to forsake the nature, but Marie is growing up and we cannot forget
that.”
He reflected for a moment and continued:
“How much did you pay for my medicine?”
“Don’t tax yourself with it.”
“I’m at my wits end realizing that if I died this very day there wouldn’t
remain much after the cost of the funeral. You can sell furniture, which would
suffice for you for a year or two. The antiques are always sought out items and
never depreciate.”
“Dear Johnny! What nonsense are you telling me now?” she reprimanded
him.
“Forget it darling, I’ve just repeated what weighs heavily on my heart. Just
in case of emergency you can lawfully claim a trust fund for Marie. I’m not
suggesting that Wolf has been found; they would print it in the press. At any rate,
they must have appointed someone to manage his estate. Marie is his daughter and
inheritor.”
Beata’s face flushed.
“Please, don’t torture me with it, Johnny!” she cried out exacerbated.
Until now, for over five years since he had sent all Marie’s clothes to a
charitable institution, they had never discussed or even mentioned the professor’s
name.
Oksza lowered his eyes.
“We have no right to force her to live in privation.”
“I will never ask him for money. I’d rather die a hundred times over, a
thousand times over! Never! Do you hear me, Johnny; never in my life!”
“I’m so sorry, dear, let’s drop it. You see, I was somewhat overanxious in
the event of my demise. I’m frightened out of my mind what will happen to you
both?”
“I can sew, I can embroider. I’ll give piano lessons. I’ll tutor students;
anything but him. Do you really imply I could stomach dealing with his estate
executor? Besides Johnny, why are we quarreling? You feel better and stronger,
and God willing all will turn out for the best.”
“Indubitably my dearest; I hope so.” He kissed her hand.
“That’s much better,” she was radiating confidence and energy. “And now
please turn in. It’s already late.”
“You’re right, dear. I even feel a bit drowsy. Good night, my sweet.”
“Good night, my love”
“Good night, my happiness.”
36
She shaded the lamp and covered herself with a blanket on the sofa. A
quarter of an hour later she remembered that John hadn’t taken his night
prescription drops.
She rose, counted out twenty droplets of medicine smelling with creosote,
added water and leaned over her husband.
“Johnny,” she said in a half-voice, “you’ve forgotten to take your night
medicine.”
He didn’t stir. She touched him gently and bent closer to him.
She saw that his eyes were open.
He was dead.
37
CHAPTER V
Exactly halfway between Radoliszki and Nieskupy stood from ancient times
a water mill, once owned by the Basilean Friers from the Wickuny Monastery, still
way back in times of reign of King Stefan Batory, presently a property of Prokop
Sapiela, commonly called in the area as old Prokop the miller.
Lately old Prokop had a cumbersome trouble on his hands. The young
apprentice, Casimir, had been drafted into the army. Prokop needed a suitable
replacement right away; one who was wise, discriminate and dependable,
considering that work in a flour mill required strength and skills. Not any farmer’s
helper was capable to fulfill such prerequisites. He had mulled over his choice for
quite some time and had eventually decided on Nikita Romaniuk from Poberezie.
The father Romaniuk had two married sons in the town, and Nikita on occasion
helped them at their jobs in intervals of his school break. The young man was
educated and sensible.
Thus deciding on Thursday - the market day, old Prokop set off on foot to
Radoliszki. It was a short hike from the mill - a couple of kilometers down the tract
filled with market bound villagers’ wagons. Here and there one of the drivers
tipped his cap or hat greeting Prokop, who was quite popular if not notorious in the
whole area. A few pulled on the reins and stopped their wagons to exchange a few
words with him, ogling him curiously, attempting to discern how the old man had
taken God’s last dispensation which had touched the youngest of Prokop’s son,
Vasil. But his face was inscrutable as usual, wrinkled with a perpetual frown and
adorned with a broad, gray beard.
Eventually also Romaniuk drove by, apparently only going shopping since
his wagon was empty save of his wife who was sitting in the back of it.
Prokop waved to him to slow down and trotting along shook hands with
him.
“So how are you?” Romaniuk greeted him. “Getting fat and rich, brother?”
“I’m surviving somehow with God’s help, although now I’m in quite a
predicament.”
“I’ve heard.”
“No, that’s not about Vasil’s accident. They’ve called Casimir into the
army.”
“They have?”
“Yes, they have. You know that I pay well my apprentices plus they get
room and board so they can save plenty.”
“I know that,” nodded Romaniuk.
38
“I thought your Nikita would fit perfectly in Casimir’s place.”
“Surely he would.”
“Then what will it be?”
“With what?”
“With your Nikita.”
“Do you mean by that him working for you in the mill?”
“Yes, that’s what I mean.”
Romaniuk scratched the back of his head. His small gray eyes were
sparkling with pride and gratification, although he appended with indifference.
“Yes, my boy is smart, strong and healthy.”
“Thank God,” hastily interposed Prokop fearful that Romaniuk might
inquire into the particularities of Vasil’s accident. “But it’s imperative to me that
he starts on Friday when Casimir must report to the barracks.”
“It’s a good omen that you’ve mentioned it to me. You see, Nikita right now
is in Oszmiany.”
“He went there to look for work?”
“Right.”
“But you do expect him back?”
“Why shouldn’t I? Anyhow, I can send him a postcard from Radoliszki.”
“Good, just remind him on Friday.”
“I understand.”
“There’s lots of work in the mill. I can’t manage with only one apprentice,”
added Prokop.
“Don’t fret, he’ll be on time.”
“Thank you and God bless!”
“And bless you, too!”
Romaniuk in deep contemplation absentmindedly shook the reins to which a
small gray horse paid no attention. He with self-satisfaction gloated over the notion
of his son being thus favored by Prokop from the entire lot.
He turned to share the good tidings with his wife. From the thick folds of a
shawl wrapped round her head only her mouth, nose and eyes were seen.
“The miller wants our Nikita to work for him,” he intimated.
The old woman sighed:
“Oh, my God!”
He was not certain by the tone of her voice whether she was pleased or
distressed, yet he didn’t reflect upon it getting accustomed to her recent plaintive
ways.
Prokop was also pleased. Although he disliked changes the perturbing
situation required it. Anyway, his trepidations seemed to be over, at least he
cogitated apprehensively till the next Friday evening.
39
On that evening purposefully he closed the mill later than usually patiently
waiting. His family had had no clue why he was so irascible. He had told them
nothing about Nikita, and presently he was boiling inside. He had told Romaniuk
precisely, Friday, hadn’t he? Casimir had already left, and tomorrow there’d be a
heap of chores. Just smash your head in the wall from despair.
“Just wait, you lost puppy, I’ll show you,” he barked, twisting his beard.
Exasperated beyond measure he swore that he’d not take him in even if he
cropped up early the next morning. Saturday is not Friday. I’d chance the first one
from the street as they come, even a thief as long as it was not Nikita.
Alas, Nikita had not materialized on that Saturday either. Prokop had to
avail himself with the help of one of his customers.
On the following day, Sunday, a holy day, Prokop habitually recited his
prayers, although anger confounded his thoughts, came outside and sat on the
bench in front of the house. He was an old man, and it was only for the third time
in his long life that someone had broken his word to him. Romaniuks hadn’t
appreciated the favor; the boy, lucky for him, had landed a position in Oszmiany
that’s why he hadn’t come, but even this couldn’t appease him.
“They’ll regret it,” he stammered, puffing on his pipe.
The day was warm and peaceful. The sun above was shining bright. Over the
ponds the swallows flew low catching bugs. Suddenly a loud droning sound
assailed his ears. Down the road sped a motorcycle.
“Profaning the holy day,” he spat, “has no fear of God.”
He knew whom he was talking about, everybody in the region knew. It was
the son of the owner of the factory in Ludwikowo, young Czynski, riding wild. He
studied engineering abroad; this summer he spent at home on break from school.
People were saying that he was readying himself to take over the management of
the factory from his father; currently he was engrossed with his motorcycle, that
devil’s contraption on two wheels just to wake up people and frighten horses.
That’s why in his repugnance Prokop cast his ireful eyes at the distancing
machine. When the clouds of dust had cleared he saw a tall figure of a man who
had taken a road to the mill. The man ambled in slow measured steps. Over his
shoulder he carried a small bundle tied to a stick. At first impression Prokop had
mistaken him for Nikita. Blood rushed into his head, yet to his dismay he beheld a
man in prime of his years with a black beard sprinkled with gray.
The man bowed, said: “Praised be the Lord,” and asked politely:
“Will you be kind enough, sir, to let me repose for a while and have a glass
of water? It’s hot and humid, I’m thirsty.”
The miller attentively appraised the bearded man; he nodded, indicating the
bench.
40
“You are welcome to have a respite, and thank God water is plentiful. Over
there in the corridor you’ll find a pail and a mug.”
The bearded fellow struck him as a sympathetic chap, although with a sullen
face, but Prokop who himself had gone through harrowing trials and tribulations
preferred sad faces to gay. In addition, he had honest eyes and trusting demeanor,
and from travelers people always learn something new and interesting. And this
one for sure was from far-off judging from his accent.
“Where are you coming from?” quizzed Prokop when the newcomer had
rejoined him on the bench, wiping droplets of water of his beard and mustache.
“From Grodno where lately I was lucky to find a good job.”
“What sort of job?”
“Various kinds, for instance in Wickuny I was with a blacksmith, but
unfortunately his project has been terminated.”
“In Wickuny?”
“Yes”
“I heard of that blacksmith, Wolowik, that’s his name, isn’t it?”
“You’re right, Joseph, one-eye Joseph.”
“I remember him well, he has lost it in an accident; a spark burned it or
something. So you are a blacksmith by trade?”
The newcomer shook his head.
“Not exactly, I do all kinds of work.”
“How come?”
“It has been almost ten years since I’m wandering the world, so I’ve learned
and mastered numerous skills.”
The old man glanced at him inquiringly from under his bushy brows.
“Have you ever worked in a flour mill?”
“No, I can’t say I did; although I’d better confess to you first. You see, I
spent last night at Romaniuks, good people I tell you. There I overheard that their
son who was slated to work for you has been lucky to secure for himself a lucrative
position in a cooperative in Oszmiany.”
Prokop face tensed.
“Aha! Romaniuks sent you here in place of their Nikita?”
“No, sir, I merely overheard them that’s all to it. I reckoned why not take
advantage of the opportunity. It’s not a sin to seek the work. You may or you may
not employ me, it’s simple as that.”
Prokop shook his head.
“I can’t hire a man right out of the street and bring him under my roof.”
“I’m not begging, sir.”
41
“That’s the proper attitude. You do understand that we are strangers to each
other. Perhaps you are of a good and worthy lot, on the other hand, for all I know,
who can tell… You didn’t tell me your name?”
“Anthony Kosiba from Kalisz.”
“I’ve never heard of such place.”
“It’s not far from Warsaw, quite a distance from here.”
“I’m telling you this, there are all sorts of people in the world,” Prokop
sighed heavily, “and you will agree with me; you have come across all types of
them yourself.” After a pause he added:
“Now tell me why are you gadding about like a Gypsy so you can’t even
warm up a seat? Where’s your domicile?”
“I don’t have a permanent place.”
“Married?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I tell you, with women there’s always trouble.”
“You are quoting God’s truth. They lead us to sin and cause, as you’ve
admitted, lots of trouble. We must marry them though; that’s God’s law.”
Old Prokop for a moment mulled over his statement, admitting to himself
that there was plenty of truth in it, indeed. His wife had born him three sons and a
daughter - for his joy or for his woes and grief?
The melancholic newcomer interrupted the Prokop’s train of thoughts.
“Of course you don’t know me, but I have references from my exemployers. You can verify them yourself.”
“I’m not interested one bit, reading and writing - there’s not much use of it
here, either way”
“My documents are also in order. If I was a thief I wouldn’t seek work, and
by now I would have been for good in jail. In all years of my journeying I couldn’t
find one hole to hide even if I had to, because I’ve never found someone I could
truly trust.”
“Not even a friend?”
“Phew, a friend! What about you? Do you have a real, dependable friend?”
The miller deeply reflected for a minute.
“I have family.”
“Let’s say, heaven forbid, your family is gone. Now, could you find
someone truly reliable to lean on while in real need?”
The newcomer spoke with bitterness in his voice, with his melancholic eyes
transfixed into space.
“Furthermore, I’m going to tell you how difficult it is to find a true friend in
this world. It always has been that way and always will be,” he uttered
42
emphatically. The miller readily agreed with him. For the first time in his life
someone had suggested the notions which sounded as plausible to him. He turned
and put in amiably to the stranger:
“Listen, people invent and say stuff about me I don’t care a fig about, and
you shouldn’t believe them either. My credo is that one ought to live honestly and
treat thy neighbors fairly. No one has ever left my house hungry, kin or not, as God
is my witness. That’s what I’m telling you. There was always enough food for us
and for a guest. You my friend are also welcome to spend a night here. I couldn’t
let you sleep somewhere in a ditch. But as God is my witness I can’t offer you a
job, although you look to me as a decent and intelligent chap. To tell the truth I
counted on a strong and young man, and you have passed your prime.”
The newcomer didn’t reply; he stood up, slightly taken aback. Several paces
away on the grass lay a cracked grinding millstone weighing nearly three hundred
pounds. He neared it and with care examined how it was embedded in the ground.
Next he bent over, put his hands under it, spread his legs, strained himself and
clearly picked it up, held it for a spell triumphantly glaring at the miller, then threw
it down as the ground shook.
Prokop slowly refilled his pipe. The newcomer sat at his side, took out a
cigarette and leisurely smoked it.
The miller stirred on the bench:
“It’s already past noon.”
“Yes, it is,” the newcomer ascertained looking up at the sun.
“It’s lunchtime. I can’t understand what’s keeping the women up. They
assume that on Sunday they can be tardy.”
But the women weren’t tardy. At that very minute from the corridor a
screechy girl’s voice announced:
“Grandpa, lunch is ready!”
“Come have a spoonful of food with us,” Prokop invited him, getting up.
“God bless you for your kindness,” thanked the guest.
From the corridor, which had no wooden floor, to the right were three
Prokop’s rooms. To the left was an access to a common chamber - in reality a
commodious kitchen serving also as a dining room, in which they dwelled for the
most part of a day. Nearly quarter of its space was appropriated by a huge, white
washed oven with glowing embers inside of it where on its red hot surface hissed
and belched pots, cauldrons and kettles of diverse shapes and sizes, filling the
kitchen with the aroma of palatable dishes. Over it and on built onto it an addition,
where in winter old folks and children used to sleep, there were stored odds and
ends covered by homespun carpets.
43
The wood paneled walls were adorned with number of colorful illustrations.
In one corner hung a gilded religious icon decorated with ribbons and flowers, and
under it there was a tiny olive lamp suspended on a bronze braided chain.
In the opposite corner resided an enormous table, on holidays covered with a
clean, white homespun cloth. Presently it was set with plates, knives, forks and
wooden and aluminum spoons. The center of it was occupied by a large, flat loaf of
rye bread. Under one wall were affixed two long, sturdy benches, and above them
on shelves pasted with intricately patterned paper cut-outs proudly stood bowls,
jugs, mugs, plated and enameled pots, pans and kettles, and in the middle of them
were proudly displayed six copper clad saucepans, scintillating with their metallic
sheen.
In the chamber the outsider beheld a group of six souls - an old haggard
looking granny, two young bosomy women, a pale girl with beautiful black eyes of
thirteen years or so and two men, a burly redhead young peasant with a broad
chest, sitting modestly by the door, and a slender looking brunet youth whom the
newcomer at once took for the proprietor’s son, Vasil. He sat quietly with his head
in his hands and his elbows on the table, staring absentmindedly through the
window. His reveries had been cut short by the entrance of his father and the
newcomer.
The women busied themselves delivering the stuff from the stove, placing
on the table two large steaming bowls: one with nutritious chowder and the other
with boiled potatoes.
Prokop and Vasil were served in deep porcelain plates, the others in plain
pottery bowls. The old miller sitting at the head of the table, just under the icon,
crossed himself in the broad Russian Orthodox fashion; the others emulated him
according to the custom, and shortly after the kitchen resounded with noises of
smacking and slurping. The presence of the newcomer was neither embarrassing
nor awkward to them. They paid no mind to him whatsoever, conversing in
mixture of Polish and Beloruss like most inhabitants in these parts. As soon as the
bowls had been empty, the granny called “mother Agatha” scolded mildly one of
the young women.
“Get up. Zonia! Move! Do we have to remind you?”
Zonia, a bosomy young woman, leaped to her feet, collected the empty
bowls and dashed toward the oven. From its hot bowels she pulled out a large
cauldron. The flames painted her hale, chubby face red, and when she returned to
the table, with a large bowl filled with meat, she had to hold it in her stretched out
arms. She had been endowed by nature with large, round breasts.
The chowder was followed by the boiled fist size chunks of glistening pork.
“Olga!” screamed the impatient mother Agatha, turning to the other female,
“cut the bread, please. What’s happening with you women today?”
44
Olga, slim and spry, reached for a loaf, placed one side of it against her and
curved a thin even slice.
“For me, too, mother,” addressed her mother, Natalie.
“Don’t forget our guest,” murmured Prokop.
Olga glanced at the guest and handed him also a nice, evenly cut slice.
“Thank you,” he said, to which she replied with a wide grin, exhibiting
pearly white teeth, and a nod: “You’re welcome.”
“Are you from faraway, sir?” quizzed him Vasil.
“Yes, all the way from Kalisz, near Warsaw.”
“Have you been to Vilna?”
“Yes, I’ve been there.”
“Did you see there that miraculous painting of Holy Mary?”
“Yes, I saw there that painting.”
Prokop glanced at him askance lowering his eyes.
“Everybody tells stories about that miraculous painting. Have you ever
witnessed any of those alleged miracles?” Vasil queried him further.
“No, not by myself; although people talked enthusiastically quoting several
confirmed miracles.”
“What miracles in particular?”
“I’m not an expert on prodigies,” the guest hesitated. “I’m going to relate
what I’ve heard.”
“Please, please, tell us,” Natalie pleaded as she shifted nearer to him.
He spoke initially somewhat taken aback of a mother and her stillborn twins,
a merchant whose wares had been stolen, about a blasphemer whose tongue had
withered, a soldier who had lost both of his arms in the last war, all on whom Holy
Mary had bestowed her miracles.
They finished with their meal, and the women rather than cleaning up the
table sat motionless, as though being enchanted by the stranger’s stories, who
being taciturn and modest by nature narrated placidly and succinctly.
“There were other prodigies but they somehow have escaped my memory.”
“That is a Catholic painting, isn’t it?” Zonia questioned him.
“You’re right, it is Catholic.”
“I’m curious,” inquired Vasil, “if Holy Mary would help one of other
denomination like the Russian Orthodox for example?”
“I can’t answer that,” the newcomer indifferently shrugged his shoulders,
“I’m sure though that if one is a good human being the denomination would play
no role.”
“Providing when one happens to be a Christian,” angrily corrected him
mother Agatha. “You are not going to tell us that she would help a Jew?”
45
“Help a Jew?” vocalized in a bellowing voice the husky redhead apprentice.
“She would curse a Jew and cast cholera on him.”
He laughed uproariously, slapping his thighs, pleased with his coarse
comment.
Old Prokop rose and crossed himself which was the cue for the others. The
women went to their chores, whereas the men exited the chamber with sole
exception of Vasil who lingered pensively at the table. The old miller after
smoking his pipe spread a sheep coat on the grass in the shade of a maple tree to
take a nap after a satiated meal.
“I’m working here in the mill,” volunteered the redhead peasant, starting the
conversation with the guest. “Six years already. It’s a good position by the way.
And what’s your trade?”
“I’m not particular. I do all kinds of work.”
“If you are staying here tonight, in the morning if you are also a mechanic
perhaps you can manage to fix my revolver. Its hammer doesn’t work. Looks like
it’s stuck, the devil only knows why?”
I have been invited to spend the night here. In the morning I will gladly take
care of your revolver. I’m a bit of a mechanic, too.”
“And I’ll thank you for that.”
“You don’t have to; it’ll be a token of appreciation for the host’s
condescension. These folks are very hospitable.”
The apprentice agreed with him. “Yes, they are good people, generous and
down-to-earth honest. The old one is a bit too strict though fair. He won’t work a
man down to his last breath or cheat him of one penny, although rumors abound
that he sent his own brother like a beggar into the world, and that his brother in
turn put a curse on Prokop’s children. No one knows the truth though; since it took
place a long time ago, forty years or more. As to the curse I think there’s a touch of
truth in it, given that Prokop has had a string of bad luck with his children. One of
them drowned. The oldest was killed in the war, and his widow, you know, Zonia
was forced, having only poor relatives, to stay with her in-laws. She’s a goodlooking, vigorous and still young woman. Many would choose her over a maiden,
which only upsets old mother Agatha so she grumbles a lot looking for excuses to
scold her. You see, Zonia and Olga, Prokop’s daughter, are on good terms with
each other, and that makes the old woman even more spiteful. Olga in particular is
a good soul, helpful and mild tempered.”
“Yesterday when I was bringing hay into the sty, while she was milking
cows she addressed me: ‘Listen Vitalis, it’s time for you to get married.’ I burst
into laughter. ‘Who me, get married? You don’t mean to you, Olga?’ I’ve forgotten
to tell you that she’s sweet on that teacher from Biernaty. She flushed her teeth and
responded: ‘Don’t you think Zonia might suit you better than me?’”
46
The apprentice laughed and spat.
“Women, there you have it; gossips and love affairs that what’s constantly
on their tongues.”
Meanwhile the women folks also came outside. Olga and Zonia were turned
out smart, as it happened they were going to dances in Biernaty. Young Natalie in
the commotion found herself flanking the newcomer.
“Have you seen our Ivan?”
“No, who’s Ivan?”
“He’s nobody, he’s our horse. He’s fat like a pig. And what’s your name?”
“Anthony.”
“I’m Natalie, nee Szuminska. My father was a foreman in the factory in
Ludwikowo. Have you been to Ludwikowo?”
“No, I have not.”
“It’s a grand place. They even have a beautiful palace there, and the young
master rides a motorcycle. In their factory they bake bricks in giant furnaces and
porcelain and pottery in kilns. Very interesting, don’t you think? And our ponds
you haven’t seen either?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“If you come with me I’ll show them to you, and where there’s a good spot
for swimming… over there nearer the forest, not there in the lower one with
dangerous pits and currents. My grandpa never allows bathing there since my uncle
Albin drowned there when ice broke under him. Are you coming or not?”
“All right, Natalie. I’m coming.”
Natalie speaking ebulliently flooded him with a childish prattle.
They ambled along a narrow, hard beaten path circumventing the ponds till
they had reached the edge of the forest where the girl’s attention switched to
mushrooms.
“My God!” she exclaimed. “I’ve never seen such quantity of mushrooms in
one spot. On Friday we picked some, Zonia and I. Do you suppose it’s all right to
gather them on Sunday, a holy day; but that won’t be work, it’ll be diversion and
diversion is not work so it won’t be a sin as my granny would say.”
It took most of the afternoon for them to collect the mushrooms from the
heath overgrown grove. They had reposed for a spell and at dusk repaired home
just in time for supper. Natalie’s mother and Zonia had not yet come back from the
dances, so Natalie had to help her granny Agatha with cleaning mushrooms, a full
apron of it, which had to be cut up and preserved in brine.
After the supper Prokop and his wife retired to their room. Apprentice
Vitalis carried their son, Vasil, into his room. When he returned he pulled out two
straw mattresses from behind the oven, placed them on the wide benches under the
wall and sputtered out:
47
“Lie down on the bench, brother; you’ll sleep tonight in the kitchen. Thank
God there are hardly any flies here.”
He shut the door, extinguished the lamps and sprawled himself on his
mattress. The guest didn’t have to be invited twice. The silence reigned in the
kitchen discounting a few buzzing flies, but soon their activities also ceased, and
only through the wall came a low soothing rustle of water splashing from the
trough. It was blissfully warm and balmy, so they quickly fell into an easy restful
slumber.
It was barely dawning outside when they have been awakened by the din of
rumbling wheels, beating of hoofs and loud voices - the customers had arrived with
grain. Prokop appeared in the corridor, clearing his throat. Vitalis promptly got up.
The guest followed his suit. They shoved the mattresses behind the stove.
Prokop entered and mumbled:
“Praised be the Lord!”
“Forever and ever, amen!” they echoed back.
“What are you standing here for? Move, on one leg!” he scolded Vitalis.
“Let the wheel turn!”
Then he cast his penetrating eyes at the guest.
“You too get ready. Can’t you hear people outside carting grain?”
“Does that mean I’m hired?” Anthony exclaimed incredulously.
“Sure you are hired.
48
CHAPTER VI
From that day on Anthony Kosiba had a sense of belonging somewhere, and
although he had never laughed and seldom smiled he felt content. He was not
intimidated by hard work, spared neither his hands nor his back and had never
wasted time on idle talks. Old Prokop finding no faults or vices in the new
apprentice was inordinately pleased with him, and if he didn’t display such
sentiments it was because of his reticent nature.
Anthony Kosiba acquitted himself admirably with all chores imparted upon
him, at the trough, in the elevator, at the weighing scale or tending to the grinding
stones. When a piece of machinery got busted, he right away set to repair it. His
innate talents were notably appreciated by Prokop. Not once a clamp broke or a
gear slipped off its axel, but Anthony was able to mend it without calling for a
blacksmith or a carpenter.
“Our Anthony has golden hands,” commented Vitalis upon each of such
episodes. “One who’s intelligent can learn much wandering the world.”
And another time:
“Anthony, you are smart and not that old. If you play it right you’ll even win
a wife from Prokop. You’ll wed a widow Olga or…”
“Stop babbling nonsense,” Anthony Kosiba was taken aback, “and don’t put
silly notions into their heads nor into mine.”
The mill wheel creaked and rumbled noisily, the water sluiced in streams,
the grinding stones whirred incessantly from dawn to dusk. Sometimes they even
ran out of time owing to the surplus of work. But on Sundays they could unwind
and stretch their backs; yet even at his leisure Anthony had never become more
amicable with Olga or the gay Zonia, although both of them liked him very much
and often openly expressed such sentiments directly to him; most of his spare time
he spent socially with young Natalie.
His existence was virtually tied up to the mill activities, one day routinely
succeeded another. Was it for real? Was that all that fate had predestined for him?
No, it wasn’t. By fortuity or not an accident not only modified his routine; it also
had a tremendous impact on the life of the miller’s family.
It had occurred on Saturday just as they were at the end of the workday. The
oak wheel hub had splintered and it was necessary to tie it together with an iron
ring. Prokop fetched a toolbox, and Anthony sweated for an hour till he finally had
mended it right. The old miller so treasured his toolbox that he kept it under his
bed. Anthony lifted it and went off with it. He had never been inside Prokop’s
rooms, had had no reason to go there and neither had been unduly curious about
them.
49
It was very clean and tidy there with white, starched curtains and flowers in
pots on windowsills. On high beds were piled up to the ceiling soft, puffy pillows.
The floor was painted dark red.
Anthony hesitated. He had thoroughly cleaned his boots on the mat prior to
entering. In the second room he saw bedridden Vasil, sobbing. As he saw Anthony
he attempted to cover up his tears; eventually he abruptly blurted out:
“Listen Anthony, I can’t stand much more of this. Better death than such
living. I’m going to end it for myself once and for all. That’s what fate has chosen
for me.”
“Don’t throw empty words on the wind,” Anthony calmly scolded him:
“People suffer worse predicaments and they are happy to be alive.”
“Alive! Tell me what for, to be forever bedridden?”
“Who’s bedridden?”
“I’m useless to myself and to others. Let come what may, I’m resolved to do
it. There’s no other way for me.”
“More nonsense,” murmured Anthony moved to tears, “you are so young,
still a boy.”
“Young; and I can’t even stand on my own feet. If I were old, to hell with it, I wouldn’t care as much. Why do I
suffer on account of the sins of my father? Did I take my uncle’s inheritance? No! Not I! My father did! So why
am I an invalid not he?”
Anthony’s eyes shied away. He couldn’t look straight at that likable young
man in such a distressed spirit, contemplating suicide.
“You ought to dwell upon positive things,” he added without conviction.
“What positive things? When I see my legs I wish I was never born. Look
for yourself.”
He jerked the comforter aside, exposing the emaciated and unusually pale
legs with both shins covered with unhealed wounds and gnarly bone deposits.
Vasil kept on lamenting, but Anthony Kosiba didn’t hear him, didn’t
comprehend even one word. He stood there like bewitched. He felt a sudden
transformation inside of him, a sort of “déjà vu,” as though he already had seen
what he was beholding and as if it was not an uncommon sight to him. Irresistible
power forced him to lean over the poor invalid. He stretched his hands forth and
commenced the thorough inspection of Vasil’s knees and the shins. His large,
calloused fingers skillfully discerned slacking, limp muscles, bent fractured joints
and abnormal bone deposits.
He breathed heavily as if being overexerted physically. His mind was racing.
It was so obvious to him; he understood it all so clearly and completely. The bones
50
hadn’t fused together owing to the fact that they had been set wrong in the first
place. That was simply all to it, no mystery.
He stood up and wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. His eyes
were aglow, whereas his face turned so dead white that frightened Vasil cried out:
“My God, Anthony, what has happened to you?”
“Don’t interrupt me, Vasil,” Anthony uttered in a choking voice. “How long
has it been since your accident?”
“Five months…”
“Five? Who set the bones?”
“A doctor from Radoliszki; first he assured me that I’d be cured in no time.
He put splints on my legs and bandaged them. For two months I had them on, and
when he took them off…”
“Yes?”
“He said he couldn’t help me. That for such fractures there was no remedy.”
“No remedy?”
“Yes. My father wanted to take me to a hospital in Vilna, but that doctor
persuaded him not to, contending as he said that in this case even God himself
couldn’t help.”
Anthony laughed contemptuously.
“It’s a fallacy, a lie, an utter lie.”
“What do you mean by fallacy?” Vasil challenged him in a shaking voice.
“If you so wish I’ll elucidate it to you. Move your toes! See, if you couldn’t
move them that would have been more difficult to cure. What about your feet?”
“I can’t, it hurts,” said Vasil with an awry expression on his face.
“It’s only normal you feel pain and that’s a good omen.”
With a frowned forehead he had been lost in contemplation before he
expounded at length:
“Your legs have to be broken again and the bones set properly so you can
recover. If you weren’t able to move your toes and feet the cure would have been
quite complicated but not impossible either.”
Vasil gazed at him, confused and incredulous.
“Tell me, Anthony, how come you have learned these things?”
“I learned what I’ve learned,” Anthony stated modestly. “It’s simple to me,
not at all difficult to perceive. Look for yourself. In this place the bones got bent
where they are only partially linked. On the other leg it’s even worse. And here
there’s a long fracture all the way to the knee.”
He pressed with his fingers and asked:
“Do you feel pain?”
“Yes, it hurts like hell.”
“Well, I see another gnarly bone deposit here.”
51
The invalid sighed at the touch of Anthony’s fingers.
Anthony looked up and expounded with gusto:
“Now pay attention. We’ll make two incisions through the skin and muscles,
and using a hammer or a small saw… upon which we’ll set the bones as required
and close up the wounds. That’s all.”
Taciturn by nature, not effusive rather phlegmatic, Anthony had been
unaccountably altered. Animated he explained to Vasil the danger of
procrastination, insisting on immediate action.
“But Doctor Pawlicki will never agree to it,” Vasil shook his head. “And
whatever he says he always obstinately abides by it, unless in a hospital in Vilna?”
“We don’t have to go to Vilna,” angrily retorted Kosiba. “We don’t need
doctors! I’ll do it myself! I’ll operate here in the mill!”
“You!” skeptically intoned Vasil.
“Yes! I! Myself! Believe me, it’ll be a cinch. You’ll run about like a
mountain goat.”
“Where did you learn such things? You are talking about a surgery. One
needs schooling and practice. Have you ever operated in the past?”
Anthony’s countenance clouded over. He couldn’t overcome a strong desire
which had propelled him to insist on this operation, at the same time he was
sensible enough to know that they would never believe him and consequently
would not allow him to perform it. In verity in the long span of his wandering
years not even once he had had an encounter with a broken leg, and for certain he
had never faked being a doctor. He was inordinately surprised of his sudden
convictions, of the unwavering belief and of the inner certitude that he was capable
to make Vasil walk again. Astonished as he was he was not in the slightest deterred
neither afraid to change his mind or to falter in his calculations.
Anthony detested lying though this time he had to stoop to it if he had to
succeed.
“Have I done it in the past?” He impassively transfixed his stare into space.
“Yes countless times. I’ll operate on you too, and you’ll be prancing again
providing you have courage and you’ll let me do it.”
The door swung open. Young Natalie called out:
“Anthony! It’s time to sup! What about you, Vasil? Are you coming or
you’ll eat in bed?”
“I’m not hungry,” Vasil impetuously snapped at her, being interrupted
discussing such an important subject to him. “Go away, Natalie!”
He began inquiring afresh and let Anthony go only as he had heard his
mother’s screechy voice in the corridor.
Two days later old Prokop puffing his pipe beckoned Anthony and invited
him to sit on the bench alongside him.
52
“What fables have you put into my son’s head? That you can cure him,” he
verbalized upon gathering his thoughts.
“Not fables, Prokop. It happens to be the truth straight from the heart.”
“What truth?”
“It’s very simple. I’ll operate and he’ll be prancing sprightly as before.”
“How can you do that?”
“I’m going to tell you how. I’m going to make incisions, break the bones to
set them again. They were set wrong. That’s why they won’t fuse.”
The old man spat, stroked his gray beard and impassively waved his hand.
“Fiddle sticks! Even Doctor Pawlicki himself stated that there was no help in
Vasil’s condition. And you an ignorant, an illiterate contradict his knowledge and
his authority. I don’t deny that you’ve smattered various skills and it would be a
sin on my part not to grant it to you, but a human body is not an axel or a gearbox.
One has to learn anatomy, each bone, each vein, what comes together with what,
how and where it’s suppose to fit, etc. I myself not once have partitioned a
slaughtered pig or a calf. You’d never believe in quantity of dissimilar parts and
organs you’d encounter, and they are all so confusingly intertwined, and I’m
referring to an animal. A human body is even more complex and delicate. Only an
expert, not even every doctor can perform surgeries. A human body is not like a
grass-cutting machine you’ll merely oil it, screw tightly all its bolts and it’ll be
cutting like new. Here erudition is necessary, science, schooling and lots of
practice.”
“It’s up to you,” Anthony spoke in earnest. “I’m not forcing you or begging.
I only have told you I’m able to perform such a surgery, and on numerous
occasions I have helped people in corresponding predicaments. Have I ever lied to
you? Or cast empty words in the wind?”
The old one sat frozen still.
“Have I ever once bragged and couldn’t deliver?”
The old miller nodded.
“You are telling God’s truth, and as I’ve mentioned you are a man of many
skills and talents, but to risk the life of my child, do you understand this? He is my
youngest and the only remaining son.”
“And you prefer him being crippled for the remainder of his natural life? I
also must elucidate to you, Prokop, that he’ll suffer even more for he has loose
bone splinters and chips. Come I’ll explain it to you. You will feel it with your
own fingers. You are admonishing me with lack of schooling. What about that
educated doctor from town? How come with all the science and practice he
couldn’t do anything, nothing at all!”
53
“When a practicing doctor was helpless, what an ignorant apprentice could
do? Unless…” he hesitated, “we’ll take him to a hospital in Vilna. Of course it’ll
be an expensive proposition and probably just a waste of time and money.”
“It will cost you not one penny on my part, and I’m stressing again, I’m not
twisting your arm. My intentions are straight from the bottom of my heart, to
requite your goodness and generosity. First of all if you are fearful that Vasil will
get worse or even die because of me, don’t be. Second, if heaven forbid things turn
bad you’ll have a right to slay me on the spot. I won’t defend myself, or I’ll serve
you for nothing for the balance of my life. Now, why do I want to help your son? I
tell you why, for I feel sorry for him. I’m totally confident that I can help him.
There’s though another disturbing matter, Prokop. You have undoubtedly heard
what notions and poisoned ideas rush into your son’s head?”
“What ideas?”
“Suicide, he wants to kill himself.”
“Phew!” he spat to the side. “Don’t call the name of the devil in the wrong
hour.” The old miller shuddered.
“I’m not calling it, your Vasil is. He’s, with no end to it, pondering and
brooding about it. He has confessed it to me and to others, too. Ask Zonia or
Olga.”
“In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit!”
“And you don’t call the name of the Lord in vain.” Anthony scolded him
severely. People are saying that your own transgression is the sole root of your
child’s calamity, being cursed for alleged wronging of your bosom brother.”
“What? Who bleeped that?” barked the old man.
“I tell you who? Everyone is, and if you are so interested to find out even
your own son. I’ve heard him lamenting: ‘Why do I have to suffer for the sins of
my father?’”
There was a moment of silence. Prokop lowered his head and sat still like
petrified, only his gray beard and hair stirred lightly in the breeze.
“God have mercy on me. God have mercy on me,” he whispered inaudibly.
Anthony was moved to tears beholding the old man whom he had accused of
an unpardonable sin. To alley his harsh words he continued in a conciliatory
manner.
“People like to gab and gossip; repeating in circles all that nonsense, and
Vasil is very young and foolish. I tell you though I don’t believe one word of it;
besides, the Lord moves in mysterious ways.”
“As I’ve stated, Prokop, I don’t believe them,” Kosiba continued. “And to
prove it I’ll heal your son. Consider it carefully, Prokop, don’t rush and don’t make
a mistake. I’m well cognizant that you know that I’m in you corner, just as I am
sure that you are in my corner. Can you envisage what will in reality happen
54
despite of these malicious gossips when Vasil gets up and walks again and takes up
work like other people? To whom are you going to leave your mill? Whom are you
going to lean on in your old age? Just imagine how this would have closed the
gossipers’ yaps forever if they had beheld your Vasil on his feet.”
The miller got up slowly. Perturbed he fixed his gray eyes at Anthony.
“Listen to me Anthony, you do promise me that my boy won’t die.”
“Do I promise? I’ll swear to it,” Anthony uttered in a somber tone.
“All right, come with me!”
Prokop led the way, poked his head into his rooms. There was no one inside.
In the corner under a small icon swayed the tiny flame of an olive lamp.
Prokop took off the icon from the wall, solemnly raised it aloft and
prompted Anthony:
“Do you swear on Blessed Virgin?”
“…On Blessed Virgin,” reiterated Anthony Kosiba.
“… On Jesus Christ our Savior…”
“…On Jesus Christ our Savior…”
“…Amen!”
“…Amen!” Anthony repeated and for better effect of the oath he kissed the
painting which Prokop held reverently aloft.
The operation was to be performed in total secrecy. Prokop particularly
attempted to avoid additional publicity, which in its course would have
undoubtedly resuscitated gossips about the proscribed brother and the vengeance
meted from heavens upon his progeny. Notwithstanding Anthony Kosiba’s oath
and total confidence in him Prokop had to take into the consideration the
possibility that his son may not survive the surgery.
That’s why he hadn’t confided even in those closest to him about the
impending operation.
On the morrow strictly adhering to Anthony’s instructions, the women
thoroughly cleaned the room in the mill addition, started a fire in the stove and
boiled water in a large cauldron and two kettles. Vasil’s and Anthony’s beddings
were brought there also.
Prokop told his family that Anthony would try his own ways to heal Vasil.
In the meantime Anthony picked from the toolbox a hammer, a small
handsaw which he cleaned till it shined and affixed to it a handle. Next he selected
a chisel and two knives, honing them until they were razor sharp. He did all of this
inside the storeroom so that no one could espy him. No one also knew why he had
cut out four convex shaped wooden splints.
Old Prokop early in the morning went to the town where he bought various
wares which he delivered directly to Anthony in the addition. Among the wares
were iodine and cotton. For bandages Anthony utilized two new bed sheets.
55
In the evening they carried Vasil into the addition, which consisted of two
rooms, a large chamber with three windows and a spacious though windowless
alcove. Vasil’s bed was put into the chamber. The alcove was occupied by
Anthony. In the addition chamber, just like in the mill kitchen, there were benches
under the wall and a large, sturdy table in the corner.
Vasil couldn’t sleep one wink. He without rest plied Anthony with questions
pertaining to the details and peculiarities of the imminent surgery.
“Go to sleep!” eventually Anthony snapped at him. “You behave like a
woman, scared of pain.”
“In no way, sir, I’m not scared of pain. You’ll see, not even one moan,
though I have one request, Anthony. Please do not mind me if it hurts, just be sure
that it’ll end all right.”
“Don’t worry it’ll end all right.”
At dawn as usual they rose in Prokop’s mill to their daily routines, though
with a slight variance. The two young women took up Anthony’s place.
“Hey Prokop,” the villagers jaded him, laughing. “Women are running your
mill now?”
Though old Prokop hadn’t even deigned to parry; there were other more
important matters at hand to ponder about. He went habitually about his business,
whereas his anxious soul sought relief in fervent praying.
Meanwhile the sun rose, pierced through the morning fog lingering over the
horizon and flooded the world with its bright light.
Anthony had been on his feet, busy since sunrise, mumbling under his
breath. Vasil’s eyes intensely scrutinized every step and move Anthony made, yet
he didn’t dare to speak up or even to quiz him upon some irrelevant subjects. This
bearded giant at this very minute resembled a dangerous ogre, outlandishly
mysterious and foreboding. His animated behavior, haste decisions, darting to and
fro, brief contemplations, lips frozen in a half-open smile and creased forehead
evoked superstitious premonitions in Vasil’s head. But he concluded that no one
could help him now. His fate was in this giant’s hands. He had been aware that no
amount of pleading would sway Anthony from his decision. He might as well be
resigned to his lot, since even crying would avail him naught. So he stared like in a
hypnotic trance at Anthony whose activities he didn’t comprehend: throwing
miscellaneous tools into boiling water, wrapping a piece of white sheet round
himself, setting on the stool rolls of bandages and coils of rope, of rope?
A vision of horrified executioner’s tortures flitted through Vasil’s head.
Then again he was exceedingly surprised listening to a beseechingly soft and
mollifying Anthony’s voice he had never heard before.
Anthony bent over him and spoke to him in a soothing and assuring tone:
56
“Well, my friend, summon your courage and try to behave like a man.
There’s lots of pain for you to overcome if you want to be a dashing, spunky young
man again. And do not doubt me; everything will turn as it should, trust me. Now
lean on me.”
He lifted Vasil up and placed him on the table.
“You see, Vasil,” he stated matter-of-factly, “I sense in you a big heart and
lots of daring spirit. I’m sure you’ll lock your jaw and won’t moan even once. Still,
a slight stir could have a dangerous effect upon the surgery. You do agree with me,
don’t you?”
“Tie me up, brother,” whispered Vasil.
“And try not to look down, gaze up at the ceiling or through the window at
the passing clouds in the sky.”
The assuaging, reassuring words like tonic settled Vasil’s overstrained
nerves. He felt the strong coils binding him firmly to the table, so that in the end he
couldn’t even move an inch. With the tail of his eye he perceived Anthony rolling
the sleeves of his shirt up and for a long period of time washing and scrubbing his
hands in steamy water.
Later he heard the clinking of tools and felt as if someone had touched his
right shin with a glowing wire. Vasil locked his jaw with all the strength he
possessed. His eyes surfeited with tears. He sensed intuitively that many hours had
passed but the end of anguish was not coming. In the end he couldn’t stifle the
excruciating hurt inside of him. From a locked jaw issued a subdued, long,
terrifying wail:
“Aaa…aaa…!”
Abruptly on the hurting leg fell a powerful hammer stroke; the intense pain
filled the bone marrow with fire and triggered the muscles into a deathly rattle. In
his eyes manifested self whirling silvery points.
“I’m dying,” he thought as he lost his consciousness.
Having regained his senses first he felt a strong vodka aftertaste in his
mouth. He was so weak he barely managed to open his eyes. He wasn’t lucid
enough to figure out where he was or what had transpired to him; eventually he
detected the smell of tobacco and discerned whispers of two men. Finally he
recognized voices of his father and of Anthony.
With utmost difficulty he opened his eyes which in few short minutes
became accustomed to light. Under the wall on the bench, with his eyes fixed on
him, sat his father; flunking him there stood Anthony.
“He woke up,” his father exclaimed with elation. “My dear son, my Vasil is
alive! God has shown his mercy on us sinners! Blessed be the name of the Lord
forever and ever, amen! My baby, you are alive!”
“Why shouldn’t he be alive?” Anthony drew nearer the bed.
57
“You’ve fixed my legs, have you, Anthony?” Vasil eagerly queried him.
“Certainly I have. They were in a frightfully deplorable shape. The doctor
who set them only did further damage. In the meantime be patient and lie still.
Everything is going to fuse together and heal nicely.”
“But will I be able to walk?”
“Naturally you will.”
“Like everybody else.”
“Just like the others.”
Vasil’s eyelids became heavy. He fell asleep.
“He’s asleep now,” Anthony appended. “Good, he’s weak; he needs lots of
sleep and rest.”
58
CHAPTER VII
One week later as Vasil’s temperature dropped his appetite returned and
with it hope and humor. During the wound dressing he was hurting, nonetheless in
high spirits, laughing and joking. Anthony looked after him and when he was
indispensable in the mill, the women took up the ministration to the convalescent.
At that juncture it was quite impossible to contain the secret, and the news of
the miraculous surgery spread through the area. This one and that one, a friend or a
colleague of Vasil came for a visit, chit-chat or simply to say “hello!” Inquisitive
village women came to espy, to gather new material for gossiping, at the same time
they avoided Anthony as if he were a ghost and retreated in haste at the first sight
of him.
That way several uneventful months had passed. On Christmas Eve Vasil
pleaded with Anthony to let him get up and try the strength of his legs.
“Don’t even muse about it yet! And don’t stir too much! I’ll let you know
when it’s time for you to get up,” Anthony scolded him.
It was not until the end of January that he had judged it was time to take off
the splints. The entire Prokop’s family wished to witness such an auspicious
moment. Anthony was of another opinion. He was simultaneously thrilled and
apprehensive. With trembling hands he took the bandages off. Vasil’s legs seemed
even more emaciated, the muscles had shrunk, but the wounds had healed and most
importantly the bulky, gnarly bone deposits had shrunk into nothing.
Anthony diligently examined the legs, inch by inch, feeling and pressing the
bones through the thin, livid skin. He had his eyes closed as if the sight was a
detrimental factor in this instance. At length he breathed a sigh of relief and said:
“Move your toes, gently, and your feet. Does it hurt?”
“No, it doesn’t hurt at all,” went on the animated Vasil, chocking with
emotions.
“Now try to bend your knees.”
“I’m cowed to do that.”
“Don’t be, go ahead!”
Vasil obeyed and with tears in his eyes peered at Anthony.
“I can! I can bend my knees!”
“Not yet all the way. Lift up your right leg just a bit and the other.”
Straining himself Vasil performed the bidden moves.
“Now cover yourself. You’ll stay in bed for another week or two before
you’ll get up.”
“Anthony?”
59
“Yes?”
“Do you mean up on my feet?”
“Yes, walking just as anybody else. Though not at once. You’ll have to learn
first like an infant, mainly how to keep your equilibrium.”
Anthony was telling the truth. It took two weeks after taking off the splints
for Vasil to venture without aid of crutches to crisscross the room in slow,
wobbling though even steps. Only then Anthony called into the addition the all
members of Prokop’s household. Prokop had arrived first followed by mother
Agatha, the two young women and the youngster, Natalie.
Vasil attired in holiday clothes, wearing boots, had sat on the edge of the
bed, awaiting them. When they had gathered together, he stood up, paraded about
in a slow but stable gait, stopped in the middle of the room and gave a peal of
robust, youthful laughter.
Upon this the women initiated with wailing and sobbing as though they had
witnessed the ultimate calamity. Mother Agatha dithering and crying embraced her
son. She was followed by the others, only old Prokop stood motionless, although
tears were drenching his mustache and beard.
While women were vacillating in their emotions between sobbing and
laughing, Prokop took Anthony aside.
“Come with me,” he put in mysteriously.
Both of them exited the addition, walked around and entered the corridor.
“Give me your cap,” Prokop told him. He took it and disappeared inside the
house. He had been absent only a few minutes before the door abruptly flew open.
The old man held Anthony’s cap in his hands and slowly stretched them out.
“It’s for you, please take it! It’s gold, the Russian Imperial rubles. It’ll last
you for the rest of your life. You won’t take money from me accept this as the
token of my gratitude.”
Anthony eyed the old man and the cap which was indeed filled with small
gold coins.
“Prokop!” Anthony took one step back. “Have you lost your senses?”
“Take it! It’s yours!” repeated the old miller.
“I can’t take it, I don’t need it. Please stop it, I tell you! I didn’t do it for
want of money, but to recompense your benevolence and generosity, and because I
was sorry for your boy.”
“Take it!”
“I can’t,” he again refused the largess.
“Why not?”
“I have no use for such treasure.”
“You can’t refuse the gift straight from the bottom of my heart. As God is
my witness, it’s of my free will…”
60
“And I thank you also from the bottom of my heart for your goodwill and
generous intention. I don’t need that gold. I work for wages, and don’t they suffice
my needs?”
The old miller pondered for a moment.
“I’ve offered you a token of my appreciation,” he propounded at length.
“You have your reasons for not accepting it, and I can’t force you, can I? But I’m
telling you it’s not right to decline the gift of gratitude, not to quote the fact that
people will needle me with that I didn’t reward you for your efforts, plus it’s
unchristian to behave like that. If you turn down gold accept something else in
place of it. Be a guest among us. Live with us as a member of our family. If you
wish to help in the mill or on the farm you are welcome to it, if you don’t that’s
your business.”
Anthony nodded.
“I like to stay with you, Prokop; however I will never eat bread without
earning it first while I’m able to do so. I will never be a sponger or a parasite. I tell
you, I don’t appreciate much life without employment, for which by the way I
sincerely am obliged to you.”
They had never reverted to the above confabulation again, and the routines
in the mill trundled as usual. Only at the table Anthony was served in porcelain
plates, and as a rule got the choicest morsels.
On the coming Friday, the day of the largest gathering of customers in the
whole week, Vasil came outside clad in a short sheepskin coat, a fur cap and high
boots with polished flaps. He strutted about the courtyard as if nothing injurious
had ever befallen him. The peasants stood there agape, and one and another poked
with an elbow his neighbor, all being shocked and incredulous given that not even
one of them believed what women were gossiping - that Prokop’s hired man, a
perfect stranger from faraway, Anthony Kosiba, had miraculously cured an invalid,
Prokop’s son, Vasil.
The rumor of the prodigious healing spread like wildfire. While earlier the
gist of gossips had been sundry telltales about an unfortunate calamity smiting the
youngest of Prokop’s children, presently they gloated over his amazing cure. Thus
the news spread through Biernaty, Radoliszki, Wickuny and Guminsko and even
farther where people didn’t pay so much attention to it owing to the distance, but in
the immediate vicinity all cherished in their minds the miracle in the mill.
That’s why when in the second part of February in Czumki forest a farmer
from Nieskupy, Fiodorczuk, had been crushed while felling birch trees, his
neighbors opted to take him to the mill, to Anthony Kosiba. They delivered him
there half dead, blood spurting out of his mouth and without a sign of vital organs
functioning. When a sleigh pulled by a small bloated pony had stopped in the
61
courtyard, Anthony at that very moment was carrying on his back a sack of grist
for a customer.
“Help us, brother,” the one of the Russian Orthodox creed pleaded. “Our
neighbor was crushed by a tree. Four small ones will become orphans. We buried
their mother last year.”
Prokop joined them, and they appealed to him.
“He has saved your own son; please enjoin him to help Fiodorczuk.”
“That’s not my affair good people,” Prokop stated with emphasis. “I can’t
force him to help Fiodorczuk nor can I forbid him. It’s his business.”
Meanwhile Anthony Kosiba brushed the flour off his hands, kneeled in the
snow by the injured man and appraised his condition with proficient promptness.
“Lift him up gently,” he told them, “and bring him inside.”
After Vasil’s legs had healed, Anthony permanently occupied the rooms of
the addition. It was very convenient to him, and the place was vacant anyway.
The injured man required extensive medical treatments. Late in the evening
Anthony informed the Nieskupy villagers who had been waiting in the kitchen.
“Thank God,” he commented, “your neighbor is physically very strong and
his spine hasn’t been damaged. He has six of his ribs broken and a collarbone, too.
You may take him back. He must stay in bed until there’s no blood in his saliva.
When he starts coughing give him ice to swallow. No hot food or drinks, only cold.
Also he has to keep his left arm in a sling for two weeks. In ten days send someone
for me so I can determine his status.”
“Will he live?”
“I’m not a prophet,” Anthony shrugged his shoulders, “but if you adhere to
my directions he’ll live.”
They took Fiodorczuk with them and left. Before ten days passed they had
come back with another patient. A farmhand cutting blocks of ice in the river had
slipped while swinging an axe and cut his foot deep to the bone. Because of rust on
the axe or dirt in the boot the wound had got badly infected and a large part of it
had turned black. Even the injured had become aware that it was a case of
gangrene.
Anthony moved his head from side to side and stated with conviction:
“I’m awfully sorry I can’t save your leg.”
“Please, save my life,” begged the poor soul.
“Your leg has to be amputated here,” he indicated the spot just below the
knee.
“You will remain an invalid for life and you’ll curse me for that, saying that
others could have spared your leg.”
“I swear to God, brother, save my life. I see for myself the black spots. I
know that’s gangrene.”
62
“If you so wish,” Anthony agreed to operate, at first rather noncommittal.
The patient after the difficult amputation, pitifully weak, had had to remain
under Anthony’s care for several days before he could be moved back home for
convalescence.
After these miraculous treatments Anthony Kosiba’s notoriety was rising in
no less than a spectacular rate. Patients began to appear regularly, the first one with
infected eyes, blind like a bat, the second afflicted with asthma and the third
complaining of acute rheumatism. The next one came stricken with gall bladder
and many others who were very sick having no clues what was wrong with them.
Anthony didn’t treat all who sought his advice. Those incurable he sent right
away home. Others he counseled where to apply a sack with hot sand, what herb
potion to drink, or when to avoid salt and what diet regimen to keep. And it so
happened that those who had adhered to his advice felt better, or were restored to
their health, and if not entirely at least didn’t suffer as much.
63
CHAPTER VIII
In the town of Radoliszki where the narrow street called Napoleon’s merges
into Second Market Square, renamed after the WWI Independence Square, stood a
two-story red brick house. The first floor of it was occupied by four shops; the
largest and most imposing was owned by Michalina Skopek. In her establishment
one purchased writing materials, postage stamps, buttons, needles, thread and other
confectionery items, plus tobacco and cigarettes.
Whenever Anthony Kosiba was in the town, he procured there cigarettes,
matches and also supplies of silk for stitching wounds.
Mrs. Skopek allocated scarcely anytime to the care of her store, and if she
did it was usually on Thursdays, the market days. Mostly she was absorbed tending
to her four children, not to quote the never ending chores of one who owned a
farm. The affairs of the store were subsequently relegated upon a young girl, an
orphan, who for room and board and ten zlotys monthly conscientiously fulfilled
the role of a salesperson and a manager.
Mrs. Skopek could not but appreciate other assets her salesperson, Marie,
was blessed with. Most of the customers were friendly disposed toward her, given
that she was kindhearted and accommodating, welcomed all with a smile and most
importantly she was the copy of a flawless beauty. That’s why so many customers,
to be honest, came in just to see Marie, to exchange a few friendly words with her,
to joke a bit and flirt. The young apothecary, the county councilor, the vicar’s
nephew and engineers from the Ludwikowo factory had never passed up the
opportunity to drop in under the pretext of buying cigarettes or a postcard.
“Marie, be on guard!” coached her Mrs. Skopek. “And pay no mind to
married men since it’s a waste of time. Rather focus your attention on a responsible
bachelor, and when one of them falls for you play it smart, it may lead to a
wedding march.”
Marie laughed.
“I have plenty of time for that.”
“There’s never enough time for a woman in such affairs, not to mention that
you are almost twenty years old. It’s a ripe age for marriage. I at your age had
already a two-year-old son. Only you must choose the right fellow, and do not
reach too high; you’ll get only hurt. I’m telling you the sacred truth. For instance
get out of your head that squire’s son who rides a motorcycle. His callings here are
frequent, but will he wed you in the end? I’ve encountered them all. They’ll pine,
make sheepish eyes, hold your hand, and later there’ll be only trouble and shame.
Don’t court disaster upon your head.”
64
“Why are you saying this to me, Mrs. Slopek? Not even one such notion has
entered my head.”
“To remind you, his father is a grand lord, a squire and the proprietor of an
estate with a palace and a factory. He’ll wed his son to no less than a countess,
remember that.”
“Unquestionably he will, it’s his not my affair. If sometimes I’m playfully
inclined and tempted to wink at someone,” she added lightheartedly, “it’s in the
presence of that old witchdoctor from the mill.”
With the hand on her heart she admitted to Mrs. Skopek that she was
intrigued by Anthony Kosiba, perhaps due to his profession and his miraculous
healing and surgical skills. “People are saying,” she persevered with passion, “he
performs prodigious acts saving those who were destined to die as if he has sold
his soul to the devil, although some claim that he has got his powers from a
painting of Holy Mary in Vilna, and that’s why he treats patients for free, whereas
others are alluding to a love potion of his making; you just give it to one to drink in
your presence and he’ll become your slave forever.”
“Aside from it he seems to be a quiet, unassuming man. On the other hand,
he doesn’t behave likes an ignorant peasant. Never spits on the floor, curses or
haggles for price. He enters, takes off his cap and speaks curtly what items he
wishes to purchase, pays for it and says politely:
“‘Thank you miss,’ and exits.”
On one late March afternoon there came unexpectedly a deluge from
heaven. The witchdoctor was in the store as it abruptly came down in buckets.
He peered through the window and asked:
“Will you allow me to stay here for a while till the rain abates a bit?”
“Of course, please sit down.”
She ran round the counter and pushed a chair toward him and added:
“It’ll be quite a while, it’s just pouring outside. You’d get thoroughly
drenched before you got back to the mill.”
He asked politely:
“Who told you that I’m from the mill?”
“That’s not a secret,” she went on. “You are a witchdoctor. Anyhow,
everybody here knows who you are. But you, sir, are not local; your form of
expression and the accent are not indigenous.”
“Yes, I’m from the area near the Capital.”
“Oh, my mother came also from there.”
“Mrs. Skopek?”
“No, she’s not my mother.”
“You are not her daughter?”
“No sir, I only work for her!”
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“And where’s your mother?”
“She died four years ago, of consumption.”
Her eyes filled with tears. In an emotionally charged voice she resumed:
“If you were here you’d probably have saved her. Poor mommy, we have
never expected to be in such dire predicaments, though please do not
misunderstand me; I’m not sniveling, not at all. Mrs. Skopek treats me fairly, and
in all fairness I’ve not missed much perhaps a piano and books.”
“What about your father?”
“He was a game warden on the estate of Duchess Dubantzev in the Ordyniec
Nature Preserve, an enchanting place to be. He died there when I was but a child.
Afterwards we had to endure all alone, my mother and me. Those were the trying
times, indeed. My mother gave music lessons and did sundry odd jobs - tutoring,
embroidery and such. We had to move repeatedly, of necessity, Braslaw, Swieciny
and finally Radoliszki. Before long my mother died leaving me alone in this world.
The last vicar took me in, and preceding his transfer to another parish he arranged
for me to stay with Mrs. Skopek. There are still plenty of decent souls in the world;
it’s hard though to be alone bereft of family.”
The witchdoctor nodded.
“Yes, it’s very hard; I can tell you that.”
“You have no family either.”
“No.”
“No one at all.”
“None.”
“At least you’ve got the consolation of people’s appreciation for succor you
bring to them. It has to be particularly gratifying to you to help the needy, to allay
their pain and indisposition. I would also have been proud of such achievements, of
being useful and contributing in society. Please do not laugh at me; since my
childhood I have dreamed of becoming a doctor. If only my mother was alive. I
was about ready to take the regency exams in Vilna.”
She sighed despondently and impassively waived her hand.
“Ah, it’s all in the past.”
“But you’ve acquired education?”
“Not as much as I would like, and presently I feel it’s too late for that. Thank
God I’m healthy so I can earn bread by myself.”
On the counter there was displayed an embroidery work: a tablecloth with a
colorful, intricately designed flowering pattern. The girl reached for it and
commenced stitching.
“I also fashion gowns and other pieces of finery. You see, sir, this
embroidery I’m doing for Mrs. Hermanowicz from Piaskow.”
“It’s a nicely done work. You are an artist.”
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“I learned it from my mother.”
They conversed complaisantly for another half an hour. When the rain had
stopped, the witchdoctor politely bade her good-bye and stepped outside. Since
that very day he had visited the Skopek’s establishment more often; at his leisure
indulging himself in casual conversations with Marie, to whom he grew
exceedingly attached. Just to behold her beautiful animated face and her evenly
brushed golden hair was a heavenly experience to him. Her voice was clear with
crystal like timbre, whereas her large blue eyes reciprocated kindness, and together
with it he sensed that she liked him as well.
In the middle of winter an itinerant cinema truck arrived in the town,
establishing itself in the volunteer fire brigade shad, where despite of cold for three
consecutive evenings there was no dearth of spectators to whom were exhibited
American produced movies. Mrs. Skopek, who countless times had heard homilies
chastising the worldly ways and promiscuity promulgated by movies, had opted to
sample some of it and to judge it by herself. Since she lacked confidence in her
judgments she took Marie with her for she relied on her intelligence and good
taste.
Marie used to go often to the movies in larger towns like Braslaw or
Swieciny, but it was long ago when she had been an adolescent. Currently she
reflected deeply on the subjects and plots of these films, particularly one of them
took up her fancy. It was a story with a happy ending about a young village girl, a
kind of Cinderella, with no one there being cognizant of her existence - not until
she had arrived at the Metropolis and had been employed in a huge magazine store
where thousands of customers shopped daily. Finally she was discovered there by a
famous and enormously rich painter, who fell in love with her and who was able
lucky for both of them to descry aside of her natural beauty and charm the qualities
of her character.
“It might have occurred in a large town or in a metropolis.” Marie thus
deliberated ruefully. “But if this girl had remained in her village her future would
have probably been a dismal one.”
As for her own future she had no grand illusions. She’d live in this small
town forever, and what caliber of man she could aspire to marry? She had an
ample dose of common sense not to take seriously under consideration even the
remote possibility of espousing young Czynski. In the first place his parents would
adamantly oppose an alliance with her. Secondly, he had never even alluded to
such plans for the future, and she herself wasn’t aspiring to become the wife of an
aristocratic personage. Hadn’t she wrapped merchandise for his auspicious friends
and family members? Hadn’t she delivered it to their fancy coaches and
limousines? How could they treat her as their equal?
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She could envisage her future life in an altogether different light only if Leh
Czynski was an ordinary fellow, a customer, a tradesman or even a farmer.
“Oh yes, then everything would come out like in a fable.”
In Leh she saw a perfect rendition of Adonis’ incarnation in a man. There
was no one in photographs, in postcards or in movie magazines as handsome as he
was. She adored everything about him; even his vanity and pride she adjudicated to
be less abominable vices as she had rationalized earlier, in reality a décor which no
one took seriously. Well, had he been a humble breadwinner his demeanor would
have been modest, too.
At the advent of spring Marie mused about young Czynski as of a figure in
daydreams and never as the future master of Ludwikowo.
This figure absorbed a tiny segment of her imagination nonetheless it was
permanent and unyielding, and even more so reckoning that there was no available
space for others. In the Radoliszki environs there were scores of available
attractive young men who were more or less enamored of Marie, though none of
them imprinted a lasting impression on her.
Finally June came - hot, exuberant lush June. The town surrounded by
waves of green sea resembled an enormous blooming bouquet of white poplars,
lime and birch under which nestled like wild flowers red and white dwellings
barely visible since they themselves were covered with luxuriant jasmines, lilacs
and ivy. When one ventured on a Sunday afternoon stroll one felt there was no
other more beautiful and peaceful place on earth. From a distance one didn’t
discern unevenly cobbled streets, piles of garbage and pigs wallowing in puddles.
The sun glowed brightly from the cloudless sky. The wind skimmed lightly
over the fields, and everyone was filled with elation and contentment.
Mrs. Skopek’s store was open till seven o’clock. It was very hot inside.
Trees recently planted in front of it scarcely provided any shade, that’s why
tobacco articles had to be kept in the cellar otherwise it would wither parched dry.
In the evening after closing the store Marie frequently, weather permitting, went
swimming in the Zwirowka. It was a shallow rivulet. In summer a hen could cross
it without wetting its feathers, though in two spots it created spacious, deep ponds.
Near the highway bathed the men, and beyond the church the young women and
girls.
After a refreshing swim there was enough time to help Mrs. Skopek with the
household chores, and later to enjoy a good book. Marie had already read most of
the books in the parish and in the school libraries. From time to time she borrowed
a novel from a member of the town intelligentsia. She loved to read, virtually was
addicted to it, learning several books by heart; particularly two, one in French and
one in German she perused periodically in lieu of a conversation so as not to forget
these languages.
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She also treasured an old worn-out volume of French poems by Musset,
which she had received as a gift from the former vicar. Once she had held it open
in her hands when her old and gentle acquaintance from the mill had stepped in.
“What are you reading, miss?” he asked to be polite.
“A poem, a beautiful poem in French.”
“In French?”
“Yes, Uncle Anthony, a poem by Musset.”
The witchdoctor took the volume, turned a few pages and seemingly perused
it, at least that what Marie thought. His lips were slightly moving. Within a minute
he abruptly closed the book and straightened himself up.
He was pale and his eyed were clouded.
“Are you all right, Uncle Anthony,” uttered Marie somewhat alarmed.
“Yes, yes, I’m all right,” he shook his head and pressed upon his temple.
“Why don’t you sit down, Uncle Anthony.” She ran in front of the counter
and offered him a chair. “It’s a real scorcher today. Perhaps you had a faint spell
from heat exhaustion?”
“No, please don’t bother with me. It has already passed.”
“Thank God. You gave me a scare. Now returning to the poem please listen
and enjoy its fine rhymes. Even people who don’t understand French could derive
gratification just from the rhythm and the melodic sound of it.”
She found her favored stanza and proceeded to read it out aloud. Had she
turned her eyes away from the text she would have instantaneously perceived how
deeply it had affected Anthony Kosiba, but being strict she read it for herself, for
her own pleasure, delighting in its fluidity and the resonance of the fine rhymes
and in the sentimentality of the author’s motif of two longing hearts desperate and
nostalgic, mercilessly separated by the blind caprice of fate, burning with the
slowly extinguishing flame of yearning which in itself became the sole foundation
of their existence.
She had accentuated the last few words and raised her head. She saw the
witchdoctor’s eyes fixed on her in a semiconscious gaze.
“Are you alright?” she voiced her concern.
She heard him repeating the last stanza. She had not been mistaken although
he recited it in a quiet, raspy voice.
“Dear uncle, you speak French…”
“Like the blind caprice of fate, like an uprooted tree.”
He stood up on unsteady legs and uttered with a painful expression on his
face: “What’s happening to me?”
“My God, dear Uncle Anthony! Uncle!” she cried out.
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“I’m dizzy,” he verbalized with difficulty, “and that excruciating pain in my
head. It’s driving me almost mad. I hear horses. What I came here for? I guess for
cigarettes. Please say something to me, please talk to me.”
In verity she could hardly grasp the significance of what he had just
stammered, she barely sensed intuitively what he had meant by it. She spoke
rapidly, explaining that the horses he had heard belonged to Mrs. Hermanowicz
from Piaskow, who had come to the town shopping or to pay the vicar for the holy
mass said for the soul of her late lamented husband which she requested once a
month.
She babbled in rapid succession anything that came into her head.
He sat down breathing laboriously. She brought him a glass of water which
he drank hastily. Next she went down to the cellar and came back with a packet of
tobacco. It was nearing seven o’clock. She had concluded that it was too dangerous
for him to travel back alone.
“If Uncle Anthony will condescend to stay a few minutes longer while I
finish with closing the store, I can walk you back home.”
“Please, don’t trouble yourself. I feel alright now.”
“I’d like to have a nice exercise all the same.”
“Good,” he replied with indifference.
“Perhaps you’ll have a smoke in the interim.”
“Yes, I’ll have a smoke,” he nodded.
Outside on the way to the mill he slowly regained his strength.
“I’ve had several similar attacks,” he commented in a low voice, “induced
by malfunction of the part of my brain although it was quite long ago when I was
thus affected.”
“God willing these attacks will cease for good. Are you absolutely sure you
didn’t have a heat stroke?”
“No dear, the weather has nothing to do with it.”
“What’s the cause of it?”
“It’s beyond me and please can we change the subject, because always when
I dwell upon it and strain my memory this delirious fitful ache in my head returns.”
“Let’s converse instead about some pleasant things, uncle.”
“No, it’s not at all necessary; anyway, you’d better turn back. It’s a quite
long hike for your delicate legs.”
“Not at all that delicate,” she laughed, “though if you prefer to be alone I’m
turning back.”
He leaned toward her and gently kissed her on the forehead.
“May God reward you for your selfless heart,” he whispered softly and went
on his way.
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Marie slowly retraced her steps back to the town. The unexpected gesture
and a kiss on her forehead somehow put her at ease and uplifted her spirit after the
latest sorrowful period. She felt quite convincingly that she had found in the old
witchdoctor the proverbial human being with a golden heart, and was certain that
in the whole world there was no one so dear and sincere to her and that in case,
heaven forbid, of calamity she could count on his help and support.
She also had comprehended that this paragon of probity and compassion was
in a dire predicament requiring immediate medical attention; perhaps due to some
horrible experience in his past his conscience mercilessly tortured his soul.
The seizure, which she had witnessed in the store, implied thousands of
possible causes, though analyzing them closely she deemed them to be far-fetched
and improbable. She’d rather agree with her earlier suggestive notion, the most
plausible, that Anthony Kosiba, the witchdoctor from the mill, was a mysterious
romantic figure, perhaps a self-exiled prince eschewing society, or a poor wretch
hiding who in the consequence of committed crime had resigned himself to a
simple life and charitable work.
No, she was not mistaken. She had heard him clearly reciting a verse in
fluent French. An ignorant peasant wouldn’t be able to pronounce even one such
sentence. In addition, he had comprehended the true interpretation of metaphors in
the poem, etc., etc.
What tragic events were hidden there buried in his perturbed conscience?
Undoubtedly Musset’s poem had brought out by association bad recollections and
had awakened bitterness and sorrow. Let’s consider another aspect - his demeanor
superficially akin to plain country folk, meekness, politeness, sentimentality and….
She felt that she was on the trek of a great mystery, an interesting charade.
She was determined to unravel it. She had no idea yet where she should begin and
how to go about it, irrelevant of the above she was resolved not to rest until she’d
get to the gist of the puzzle.
Meanwhile other events diverted her thoughts distinctly into other subjects.
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72
CHAPTER XII
The first red maple leaves began to fall. It was still early autumn, sunny,
warm and serene. During weekdays fields were plowed, and roads leading to the
mill turned into streams of wagons and carts loaded with sacks of grain and flour,
though on Sundays there was quiescence and emptiness throughout. Only crickets
chirped, and at times a bird took to the air, soaring over the empty fields in slow,
undisturbed flight, or a fat hare lazily scampered about, gently hopping.
This bucolic quietude was broken by a sharp, high-pitched whir of a fleeting
motorcycle, which passed the mill and turned from the highway onto a side road
which was flanked on both sides by thicket and shrubbery. Young Czynski sped,
but he was an excellent rider. Marie, who initially had been somewhat frightened,
on the back seat felt reassured. Only when negotiating sharp turns she instinctively
clung closer to her mate.
The road led to the Wickuny Forest. They drove there every Sunday.
Usually at noon Marie went outside the town where she met Leh, far and away
from inquisitive eyes. They seldom encountered anyone there, and if they did
Marie was not concerned that much; a green jump suit, a scarf and goggles
transformed her beyond recognition. The forest was only six kilometers away.
They stayed there weather permitting till sundown. Later Leh drove Marie to
Radoliszki and he returned to Ludwikowo taking side roads.
Being extremely cautious was paramount to both of them, since otherwise
gossiping tongues would wreck Marie’s reputation for good after learning that she
had taken excursions into the forest with the young engineer from Ludwikowo.
On that Sunday Leh helping Marie to button up her jump suit commented:
“This will be our last clandestine meeting.”
“Why the last?” she asked surprised.
“Because tomorrow, Marie, we will publicly announce our engagement.”
Marie’s face froze.
“What are you saying, Leh?” she uttered, her spirit falling.
Abruptly the magnitude of the imminent affair overpowered her senses.
Obviously she trusted and believed him infinitely, however somewhere buried in
her conscience had lain dormant doubts presently stirred into life. She preferred not
to dwell upon the future. The present was an interminable bliss, and whatever was
in the offing could never outshine the past.
“Take your seat, darling,” urged her Leh. “We have lots of subjects to
discuss and decide upon.”
Without a word she sat behind him. The rush of air on occasion made her a
bit dizzy, but at that very moment it knocked her almost unconscious. She had
73
never expected the things to take place that soon, and she hadn’t even inkling what
reasons had been behind the secrecy of their engagement. She hadn’t even known
the next move in their plan, since Leh upon the exhaustive consideration had
insisted upon it.
Yesterday he had managed to finalize the last point of his scheme in effect
of which in his pocket he carried a formal, legal binding three year contract,
according to which he was appointed the chief of production in the factory, with a
salary, granted, not too impressive though more than expected for an upstart.
To coax his parents into signing this contract was not an easy task. He had
had to use ruse and cunning, and because he had adjudicated it not entirely fair he
preferred not to share it with Marie. He was convinced not without some justice
that the girl might object to a contract procured in a crafty, deceitful maneuver.
Personally he was not proud of his scheme though he had no scruples about
it either. After all, it was a struggle for his livelihood, a fight for his and his
beloved’s happiness. He had to obtain a trump card and he had got it. He had to
nullify his parents’ power of repression and he had done it.
On Monday, according to his plan, he’d declare that he had elected
irrevocably to wed Marie; undoubtedly his parents would catch right away as to
why he so adamantly had insisted on his work contract.
He’d tell them that he had misled them purposefully, anticipating their
enmity, foreseeing them preferring prejudice in favor of his happiness, and
employing all their power and resources to avert his decision. He had been forced
to seek protection in legal stipulations they were coerced to adhere to. In reality he
wouldn’t stoop to fraud or unfair advantages. He’d draw salary in lieu of a
consummately and scrupulously done work. Presently his parents were presented
with two choices: To accept the current situation, officially meet his fiancée and
treat her like any other member of the family, or renounce him as their son.
Oh, he knew without doubt that his parents at first would be indignant, restive
and unforgiving. He expected a long litany of protests, threats and
supplications, and tears and scenes, and even severing the family ties and open
hostilities, nevertheless he had to go through it all for there was no other way
about it. Being an optimist he secretly cherished hope that eventually he’d win
their blessing. If they could only meet Marie - he implicitly believed her charm,
intelligence, beauty and the other traits of her character, he couldn’t discern in
other maidens, would unfailingly sway his parents’ attitude.
One way or another he was determined to do everything necessary, and
depending upon his parents reaction to his announcement he’d set forth the
proper part of the defense.
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Marie would have to quit her job either way. If his parents relented, acceding
to their son’s wishes, she’d immediately move to Ludwikowo. If not till the
wedding she’d stay in Vilna. Leh had been prepared for such eventuality, too. They
could stay for a month or so with Waclaw Korczynski. Waclaw was Leh’s
schoolmate, and his wife would afford a comforting company for Marie.
There was one small aspect to be settled preceding their departure, namely
saying good-bye to Marie’s guardian, particularly when one took into account that
Marie hadn’t reached yet the age of consent, and a woman of Mrs. Skopek’s
stature, although Leh seriously doubted it, could present them with some
difficulties. Reverting back to the trip to Vilna there was another cumbersome
subject of finances. He was certain that Marie had no money of her own to speak
about and wouldn’t accept it from him. So it’d be up to Mrs. Korczynska to
arrange it including a necessary wardrobe for Marie. Later he’d square it all with
them to the last cent. Besides, such incurred expenses presented no financial
burden to Waclaw, a prosperous attorney at law.
Leh reflected at length upon the above strategy, whereas Marie sitting
behind him was also immersed in deep thoughts. The road as usual on Sunday was
free of traffic; only near the bridge they passed a simple village wagon pulled by a
small horse. The horse spooked by the motorcycle jumped sideways. The peasant
in the wagon was drunk, since instead of pulling up the reins he jumped off into a
ditch, succeeded by his passenger. Clouds of dust covered the grotesque scene they
admired only for a moment, because Leh didn’t stop, and Marie for a second was
certain that the passenger looked vaguely recognizable to her.
She was right. The passenger happened to be Zenon Wojtylla. Once the
motorcycle had vanished in clouds of dust making a turn, Zenon clambered out of
the ditch. He shook his fist and ejaculated a long string of expletives, coarse and
vile given that he was also drunk.
Meanwhile Leh and Marie drove to a small glade and prepared their picnic.
The simple affair consisted of sandwiches, fruits and a box of chocolates. They left
it by the motorcycle hidden in the bushes and holding hands ambled toward the
edge of a canyon. It was their favored spot. The canyon was deep with steep walls,
its bottom marked by a meandering black streak of water. Often sitting there
spellbound they had viewed a herd of deer watering in the stream. On this special
day they conversed enthusiastically and laughed heartily; their voices echoing off
the rocky walls had startled the game.
“Darling,” spoke up Leh, “our trepidations will soon be over. We are going
to get married in exactly four weeks. Can you envisage our vicar’s face when we
tell him about it? And the others! It’ll surprise them all I’m sure.”
Thrilled he rubbed his hands vigorously and turned to her with concern in
his voice.
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“Are you all right, darling? Is there anything wrong?”
“You do understand,” she stressed in a chagrined tone, “that the future for
me won’t be easy and pleasant. You can imagine what stuff people will say about
me, can you?”
“What can they say against you?”
“That I’ve married you for your money, for your social position. That I’ve
struck a good business deal to snare a prized game.”
Leh’s face turned crimson.
“That’s nonsense! How could you even fancy such a notion?”
“You are deceiving yourself, darling. They will gab and gossip.”
“And I’ll respond,” Leh erupted defiantly, “that they all are deranged,
endeavoring to judge everything by their debased criteria and I’ll enjoin them not
to mix my wife’s name into their petty affairs. I know how to defend my wife even
from the devil. And denoting that good business deal crack you’ve struck, it might
have been aimed at me owing to the fact that I indeed will reap immense profit by
marrying you; without you my life would be meaningless, I swear to you. And
another thing, I’d bet my life that you would marry me even if I were a penniless
pauper, a daily laborer, a nonentity and if my name was Pippciccippikowski, and
I’m ready to swear to it.”
Marie embraced him.
“If that was the case you wouldn’t have to lie to your parents. I’d rather
prefer you were poor.”
“Actually I’m poor. The family wealth belongs to my parents. What I
possess is a salary and a small apartment, that’s all, oh, and a motorcycle. As you
can surmise you are not marrying me for money. The only treasure I possess is
you, the treasure I’ll never forfeit.”
He admired the bright sunrays reflecting off her golden-blond, flat-combed
hair and her subtle profile.
“You don’t even realize,” he ventured on enthralled, “how beautiful you are.
Believe me, Marie; I’ve seen scores of pretty women, literally hundreds. I’ve seen
renowned and stunning beauties, famous movie stars for whom the world went
crazy, though not even one of them could have been your equal particularly on a
par with your charming personality. My dearest, you are the feast for my eyes; to
behold your delicate profile, to catch a glance of your eyes or your smile is like
admiring an object of art, and in the god-forsaken town of Radoliszki the all are
blind as not to perceive it. I promise you as of now it all will be remedied. I’ll
introduce you in society, and they’ll become infatuated with you. The famous
painters will vie for the right of doing your portraits. The illustrated magazines will
print your picture on front pages.”
“Oh, dear God!” she laughed. “I like when you exaggerate.”
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“I’m not exaggerating. I’m dead serious. And myself I’ll be prancing about
proudly like a king. I gather I’m a bit vain, but one swells in pride and vanity when
one possesses a woman envied by other men.”
Marie shook her head.
“Even if there were few who found me attractive physically they wouldn’t
envy you, and I’m discouraged just to think about how I may humiliate you with
my lack of society conventions and my modest erudition.”
“Oh, Marie, my dearest Marie.”
“I’m right, Leh, please listen to me. What about your friends and
acquaintances? Will they forget that I was a salesgirl in Mrs. Skopek store? They
will be censuring and categorizing me all the time. I’m like a Cinderella to them or
an ugly duckling. How will I fit among the society people I share nothing in
common? My education was never completed. I don’t even have a certified high
school diploma although my mother prepared me for it. I’m afraid you are
marrying an upstart.”
There was melancholy and anxiety in her voice. Leh gently touched her hand
and asked:
“Tell me frankly, Marie, do you take me for a credulous, naive dupe?”
“What caliber of question is this?” she protested.
“Do you infer that by lowering the standards of judgments I’ll be humbling
myself in the eyes of my peers, and accordingly being taken for the last idiot on
earth by espousing you, perceiving in you virtues and traits of character which
after thorough examination would only corroborate how wrong I was?”
“No Leh, not at all,” she went on in a conciliatory tone. “You put up with
my deficiencies and shortcomings because you love me.”
“They will also love you.”
“God willing.”
“And your deficiencies and shortcomings are fictitious and imaginary. I wish
all maidens apart from your looks had your charm, intelligence and sensibility.
And coming back to society conventions I’m convinced you’ll master them in no
time, and you can continue your education the way you see it fits you though no
excesses. I wouldn’t like to have a wife much smarter than me.”
“You don’t have to be concerned in my case, silly,” she said, laughing.
“Would you believe me if I’ve told you I’m very concerned,” he gazed at her
seriously. “Do you know when I figured out how brainy you were?”
“No, tell me.”
“Well, when you decided not to own up to me about that fracas with Zenon.
I could have been suspicious of Mr. Sobek who stood up in your defense of having
arguable claim upon you. Though you correctly surmised why should you explain
anything to me? If I doubted your integrity I wasn’t worthy of explanation.”
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Marie didn’t recall exactly while being distraught she had rationalized along
these lines, but she didn’t deny.
“I preferred not to involve you in that nasty affair,” she admitted in earnest.
“And you were grossly mistaken. I, only I’m and will be your protector.”
He was lost for a spell in his reveries then appended with emphasis:
“By the way one day I’m going to look up Mr. Sobek in his office and
cordially shake hands with him. What a nerve to be in love with you. Still he
conducted himself indeed like a gentleman.”
The sun was nearly touching upon the horizon. As a rule at that time they
were ready with their return; that day with so much to discuss they lingered a bit
longer. They agreed that tomorrow Marie would own up of her engagement to Mrs.
Skopek and that she’d be quitting her tenure in the store.
“Do tell her also,” Leh proposed, “that you’ll cover all expenses she deems
she’ll incur entailed by your leaving her.”
“She’s not of that ilk, Leh,” went on Marie. “She is a very proud woman. She
might feel offended if I offered her money. I worked for wages; there were no
other strings attached. I tell you this she won’t believe me about our engagement.”
“I can come about noon to convince her myself; have your things packed
and ready.”
“Leh, it’s not happening, my dear, is it? Why? I don’t deserve you! Why me,
tell me?”
He took her in his arms and cuddled her close to him. He was the happiest
and the most fortunate young man on earth, holding in embrace the girl of his
dreams who was an orphan, all alone in this world, and he would become the one
that really counts to her, also in lieu of friends and family. He was astonished,
nearly dumb struck, reflecting upon another aspect in their demeanor. He had held
many women in his arms, beautiful women though he had felt nothing for them
aside of lust. Whereas in relation to only this one whom he desired more than
anything in this world the lust was supplanted by unwavering love and almost
religious veneration. When he had met her for the first time he had regarded her as
just another woman. Had she found herself in a vulnerable tete-a-tete situation with
him probably nothing would have stopped him from committing an unpardonable
error.
Thank God that nothing of the sort had taken place.
They were coming out of the forest, readying to return home. It was already
getting dark. The forest dirt road was uneven and bumpy. They had to proceed
with caution despite of Leh knowing the entire route as well as his pockets. He was
aware of every pothole, every stone and protruding tree root or a dangerous turn. It
was easy for him to reach the primary highway in darkness with his eyes shut;
aided with a bright motorcycle front light he sped throwing the caution to the wind.
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At that juncture when the motorcycle had loomed out of the forest and its
roaring echo had rolled over the quiet fields and meadows all the way to the super
highway, on one of the Wickuny road bends had materialized the shadow of a man.
Ex-cleric, Zenon, had been skulking about there for quite a while already.
He had fallen asleep in a ditch and was mortified that the motorcycle had passed in
the interim of his slumber. He was glad his apprehension had misfired. Far-off
from the direction of the Wickuny Forest he clearly heard the sound of an
approaching motorcycle and periodically where the road turned he saw a beam of
light shooting across the terrain.
“They won’t escape me now,” Zenon mumbled under his breath.
He had been drinking heavily for the full week. He had wheedled out of his
aunt in Swieciny fifty zlotys, and had set out for Radoliszki on foot or hitchhiking,
and had patronized every inn and pub he had encountered on the way. He was
heading home again to solicit his father’s forgiveness. Dubious from the outset he
had succeeded to drink himself into a stupor. When in the afternoon he had
recognized them both, Leh Czynski and Marie, the culprits of his banishment,
drunk, filled with ingrained hatred he had hatched an act of revenge.
“Now they will pay rightfully for my misery,” he blurted out maliciously.
He figured out that they must drive through that very site he had elected
since there were no detours on this road. He waited in the ditch, in ambush.
His head spun and he swayed and reeled barely able to keep balance, but
when he heard the motorcycle getting nearer he put his plan into action. He had
already figured out precisely what had to be done. Right after the turn the road
sharply inclined and Czynski should apply more power, even more so considering
that the bend was not particularly sharp.
When just passing the bend he’d perceive unexpected obstacle it’d be too
late to use the brakes and thus to avoid colliding with the roadblock.
The obstacle consisted of two dry rot logs and a couple of huge stones he
had piled up earlier in the ditch. Presently without losing time he dragged the logs
and the stones out of the ditch and blocked the road with it. There was no way to
bypass it because both sides of the road were flanked by a deep ditch overgrown
with dense hedge like bushes.
It was not yet completely dark. Zenon scowling with approbation surveyed
his work. He was ready to depart when abruptly a fiendish image had popped into
his head. There screened by the bushes he could safely eyewitness the
effectiveness of his vengeance.
“What a pleasure it’d be to see them breaking their necks,” he thought,
smiling devilishly.
He had slipped several times but eventually clambered the precipitous wall
of the ditch, pushed his way through the thicket and lay comfortably down on the
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grass. It was an excellently selected viewing point. He’ll lie here quietly and wait
till they crashed. Next he’ll get up and take the super highway to Radoliszki. No
one will ever suspect him of having planted the barricade. No one had seen him
here, and the peasant who had given him a ride from the Wickuny’s inn drove off
in the opposite direction toward Oszmiany, and in all probability had never
guessed to whom he had given a lift in his wagon. The victims wouldn’t be found
till the morning, since at night these side roads were hardly ever used, unlike the
bustling super highway with always heavy traffic in both directions - one toward
the railroad station and the other toward the Ludwikowo factory.
“Even if someone has suspected him,” Zenon cogitated, “he threatened
them, true, still without proof… Yes, I’ll avenge myself and enjoy the spectacle for
half a price, not an everyday occurrence.”
Time was passing slowly. Minutes seemed to him as long as hours. The
monotonous drone of the motorcycle grew louder. Now it was less than half a mile
from an unavoidable disaster.
“Even the devil won’t save them now,” he thought in his mind.
Unfortunately Czynski by now had irresolutely chucked the caution to the
wind. It was getting chilly; concerned that Marie could come down with cold he
pressed on the accelerator particularly now when the road ahead of the bridge was
flat like a table.
The beam of bright light cleaved through darkness, opening the passage.
Two more turns, over a small rise, a nasty, short incline and finally there will be
the main tract. Leh reminisced happily upon the tomorrow’s events, about the
upcoming consequential parley with his parents, how he was going to introduce
Marie to them. He mulled upon blissful future evenings spent together and
mornings when they would wake up smiling at each other. He daydreamed of a
table with a cover for two and Marie, beautiful, gay and radiant reigning in their
own house.
Suddenly he saw…
Before the thoughts reached the brain, before he realized in horror that he
was dead instinctively he had applied the brakes. In a flash he pressed his heels
against the rushing road below. The tires screeched, whereas two fountains of clay
splayed on either side of the motorcycle followed by a loud crash.
Presently there was deathly silence.
It was a grand spectacle, indeed, for Zenon to behold. He stared in awe with
his eyes wide-open. He saw the motorcycle hurling upon the barricade, he
perceived the desperate attempts of the rider and saw the machine smashing into
the logs and stones and two bodies somersaulting into the air.
Afterwards it was spooky quiet.
He was fully conscious of what he had done, clearly cognizant.
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He sobered up in an instant as if he had had not a drop of alcohol in his
veins. He had wreaked the absolute, ultimate vengeance. There near the bridge the
victims lay dead or mortally wounded. He had vindicated himself although he
didn’t feel it at all; on the contrary he sensed emptiness inside of him and this
weird, spooky silence.
He went toward the barricade. On the left side of it, quite a distance away,
he saw the motorcycle. Zenon lit a match. It was now but a pile of twisted metal.
He moved forward and lit another match.
Leh and Marie had been thrown not far from each other. Zenon bent over
him. The arms and legs were splayed disorderly, the head half hidden under the
armpit. He resembled a discarded mannequin. The lower part of his face was
mangled and from the wide-open mouth issued a trickle of blood. His eyes were
shut.
Two paces away lay Marie. Her face was buried in the road clay and her
hands were clasped over her eyes as if she were crying, or as if she had arranged
her hands the way women did while crying. There were no visible marks or
indications of injuries as though nothing had happened to her. Zenon struck
another match to take a closer look at her from the other side. Only then he noticed
a small bloody wound at the back of her head.
He turned. He was under the impression that he heard a moan. It had to be
an illusion. He thrust the matches into his pocket and stalked away.
Not being conscious of it he quickened his pace. He was going faster and
faster. He felt being overcome by a dreadfully maddening fear alien to him. He
was terrorized; scared to death, not of the victims he had left by the bridge, but of
himself. Of this emptiness inside of him, of darkness, of his conscience, of the
feeling that just behind him, side by side to him, nearly inside of him there was
another self, a monster, a terrifying fiend: a murderer!
Abruptly he rushed hurling ahead of him. From the top of his lungs issued a
frightfully strident cry:
“Help! Help! Help!”
The cry transformed into a wail, a wild inarticulate animal howling with no
words in it but fear and desperate pleading.
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CHAPTER XIII
In the mill they went to bed early. Even women who although tired of the
never ending dailies chores liked to gossip, never having enough of it sitting in
front of the house till midnight, with the nights being chilly retired also earlier.
Old Prokop recited his evening prayers in front of the picture of the saint,
bowing reverently in supplications since it was Sunday. The apprentice, Vitalis,
had been already hard slumbering in the kitchen. Young Vasil entertained Anthony
Kosiba in the addition, skillfully playing a mouth harmonica. The witchdoctor,
taciturn, mixed in a small bowl powdered herbs with fat and pork bile, his own
remedy for frostbites.
Suddenly the quiescence of the night was shuttered by a violent dog’s
barking. Startled geese reciprocated gaggling aloud.
“Someone is coming,” announced Vasil.
“Vasil, take a look who’s there,” murmured Anthony.
Vasil wiped the mouth harmonica on the sleeve of his blouse, shoved it into
the pocket and not hurrying strode outside. He heard clamorous exclamations and
the rattle of a horse drawn wagon. There was a jumble of voices at least of eight or
nine men. One of them hastened ahead of the rest, gasping for air from exhaustion.
Having reached the door of the addition he stood in the window light. Vasil took
one step back.
“What the devil is he doing here?” he uttered somewhat louder, building up
his courage. The newcomer with his hands smeared with blood and a loony
expression on his face stammered in a hoarse voice:
“Help them, get the witchdoctor! They are still alive!”
“In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, who is still alive?”
“Quickly, quickly,” fussed the newcomer. “Where’s the witchdoctor?”
“What’s going on here?” from the corridor came the husky baritone of
Kosiba.
“Save them! Help them and save my accursed soul, too.” The newcomer
rushed toward the witchdoctor. “They are alive, I tell you!”
“It’s Zenon the ex-cleric of Wojtyllas.” Vasil volunteered.
“What’s going on here?” boomed old Prokop, appearing on the scene.
“They had a motorcycle accident,” sputtered Zenon, shaking as with fever.
“But they are still alive!” The witchdoctor seized his arm and vocalized in a voice
filled with anxiety.
“Who? Man, speak up!”
At that juncture a wagon with two lifeless figures in it pulled to a stop in the
courtyard.
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From the kitchen Vitalis and the women who brought with them kerosene
lamps, rushed out.
The mangled bloody face of young Czynski was a terrible sight to behold;
his eyes were open and he was conscience, whereas the white like paper delicate
Marie’s cheeks looked to be bereft of life. Above her temple a streak of blood
stained her golden-blond hair. The witchdoctor bent over her, feeling for a pulse.
The villagers narrated in confusion:
“We were just passing by the Wickuny Forest as he came like one possessed
running and screaming ‘help!’ We bolted after him, and God have mercy on them,
they were there lying sprawled on the road.”
“They didn’t breathe…”
“They crashed on a motorcycle…”
“Someone blocked the road with tree logs and large stones, and they of
course riding on a motorcycle…”
“We were baffled what to do. Meanwhile he falls to his knees, kisses our
hands and pleads with us: Take them to the doctor in the town, please, be good
Christians!”
“We are humans after all, but how could we have driven them all the way to
the town. It would have shaken the souls out of them even if they had been still
alive. I suggested drive them to the witchdoctor although we believed it was more
appropriate to call upon the vicar.”
Anthony Kosiba turned. His taut features were stone cold, face cadaverously
pallid, only his eyes were burning feverishly.
“I can’t help them alone,” he pronounced rather unaffected although his eyes
betrayed fear and bewilderment. “Someone had better summon the doctor.”
“Vitalis!” Prokop enjoined imperiously. “Harness the horse!”
“There’s no time for harnessing,” urged them the witchdoctor.
“I’ll go mounted,” volunteered Zenon.
“Vitalis, get him a horse,” Prokop addressed him again, “and you’ll go to
Ludwikowo to inform them that their young master is here.”
In the meantime the witchdoctor in the addition with one swipe brushed off
the stuff of the table and with another cleared the bench. His hands shook
uncontrollably and beads of perspiration covered his forehead.
He ran outside this time to give orders. The wounded with the utmost care
were brought inside, where Vasil lit two additional kerosene lamps, Olga set fire in
the stove, Natalie poured water into cauldrons and Zonia with large scissors cut
cloth for bandages.
From outside came the tumultuous staccato rattle of horse hoofs beating on
the tract. It was Zenon who rode off on a bare horse to summon the doctor.
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“He is going to break his neck and in the process he’ll kill our horse,”
mumbled Vitalis.
“Shut up,” decried old Prokop angered by Vitalis’ ominous comment. “The
road from here is flat like a table.”
“Oh my God, what a disaster!” repeated old Agatha time after time.
“People taking chances tempting the devil on the holy day,” opined one of
the villagers, “riding a motorcycle.”
“I don’t presume that’s a sin, then again it’s safer not to.”
“Tell me, good people from the beginning what in reality has happened?”
Prokop demanded.
All of them gathered by the wagon, including the members of Prokop’s
household, whom apparently Anthony had sent out. The detailed disclosure ensued
in earnest and was repeated in circles without an end to it. From time to time one
of the listeners pealed off from the group and peered inside the addition.
Apparently the witchdoctor contrary to his habit had forgotten to draw the window
curtains.
In verity he hadn’t forgotten; he couldn’t afford to waste the precious time
on it. First he inspected Marie. He noticed slightly detectable breathing and a very
weak pulse. He drew an obvious conclusion. She was in agony. Immediately he
must find out the reason causing the shock. The wound above the temple couldn’t
account for so violent reaction. It was a mere superficial skin cut by a stone in
effect of her fall. The bone under it was not damaged. There were other minor
bruises and lacerations.
The witchdoctor’s fingers speedily and systematically examined the inert
body, the ribs, the collarbones and the spine; finally he focused his attention on the
head. He gingerly touched the area where the head connects the neck. Marie shook
once, twice, thrice.
Now he comprehended the terrible truth: the base of her skull was crushed.
If the brain wasn’t damaged a speedily executed surgery might prove to be
successful, a slight, a very slight chance, a chance nevertheless.
He wiped the perspiration of his forehead. His eyes rested on the primitive
tools he utilized in his operations. He suddenly in fear recognized how useless
these household implements were for one to endeavor complicated surgeries,
particularly those dangerous or more difficult.
“The only hope is in the doctor,” he suffered in his mind, “and may God
speed his arrival.”
Perfunctorily he cleaned and bandaged Marie’s wounds. Subsequently he
took care of young Czynski who was quietly moaning. Washing his face Kosiba
detected a broken jaw. The worse though was his fractured left arm with one of its
bones puncturing the muscles and skin.
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With a few spare nimble cuts the witchdoctor got rid of the sleeve and
commenced the operation. Luckily the victim fainted from pain. The procedure
lasted not more than twenty minutes. At any rate, the young engineer was out of
danger.
By now Zenon who rode like one being out of his mind had reached the
town. He nearly had trampled a bevy of women by the church and at last had
dismounted at the gates of the doctor’s house.
Doctor Pawlicki had not retired yet for the night. He knew how to cope
expediently with emergencies. He sent his sister to the post office to phone
Czynskis in Ludwikowo, retrieved from a wardrobe his prized black leather bag
with surgical instruments, assured himself whether he needed anything else and
packed additional bandages, medicine and syringes with needles.
His sister arrived with the message that Czynskis had been already coming
in an automobile and shall be passing by any minute now.
“I’ll hitch a ride with them,” decided the doctor.
“Why don’t you leave now on my horse,” urged him Zenon.
“Are you mad?” ejaculated Doctor Pawlicki. “You are telling me to ride a
horse without a saddle. In a car it’ll be more comfortable and faster, I tell you! ”
And he was right. The large Ludwikowo limousine loomed out of the
darkness. Frightened out of their wits Czynskis demanded of Zenon the
peculiarities of the accident, only to be cut short by the doctor who declared: “It’ll
be plenty of time for that later.”
In less than five minutes they had reached the mill. As they were entering
the addition, the witchdoctor was wrapping with impromptu bandages Leh’s head.
“Is he alive? Is my son alive?” bemoaned Mrs. Czynska.
“He is alive and out of danger,” Anthony Kosiba averred her.
“What can you know about such things? Doctor Pawlicki, please save my
son!”
“Let me take off these rags first so I can ascertain his state,” said the doctor.
“It’s just a waste of time. I’ll tell you precisely what’s wrong with him. He
has broken his mandible in this point and his left arm right here. I have set them
both just as required.”
“Don’t bother me, you clumsy oaf!” the doctor shouted. “I know better what
next I suppose to do.” He appended disparagingly.
“There’s nothing you can do for this patient,” obstinately insisted the
witchdoctor, “but this girl requires immediate attention.”
“What’s her situation?”
“The base of her skull is crushed into the brain.”
“Doctor, my son,” remonstrated anew Mrs. Czynska.
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“His pulse is satisfactory. I’m going to make just in case an anti-tetanus
injection, then we’ll take him to a hospital for x-rays. In the interim I’ll look over
the girl.”
He leaned over Marie, attempting to find a pulse and shortly after he shook
his head. “She’s in agony,” he stated.
“Doctor, please do something,” the witchdoctor beseeched him in a hoarse
voice.
The doctor was slowly losing his patience.
“There’s nothing I can do. Let me see her wounds. I can hardly believe,
exactly as you’ve validated. The base of her skull is crushed.”
The inert body started to twitch and shake.
“Plus her brain membrane must be damaged also,” he added. “You saw the
involuntary convulsions. I can tell you this right now even a miracle won’t save her
from so dire predicament. Someone please give me a mirror.”
The witchdoctor handed over a small cracked looking glass. The doctor
placed it close to the victim’s mouth. It got covered with a thin layer of steam.
“What can I do?” he opened his arms wide in sign of despair. “I can give her
an injection of adrenaline to improve her heart beat though it’ll be useless at any
rate, I tell you.”
He opened his leather case filled with shining, stainless steel implements.
The witchdoctor stared at it as if being hypnotized by it. Literally he wasn’t able to
take his eyes off it.
The doctor filled the syringe with a transparent fluid and injected it under the
skin of the girl’s forearm.
“It’s just a waste of my effort,” he murmured. “She’ll die any minute now.”
Next he turned again his attention to Leh Czynski, undoing bandages.
“Doctor, please, save the girl. Please at least try!”
“Don’t annoy me, you ignorant lout!” Doctor Pawlicki berated him, irritated.
“How can I save her?”
“It’s your responsibility as a doctor, isn’t it?” the witchdoctor pressed
relentlessly.
“Who are you to remind me of my responsibilities? Furthermore, I’m
warning you, if these bandages will cause infection you’ll rot in jail. Do you
understand what I’m telling you? You won’t play the role of a doctor anymore?”
The witchdoctor remained oblivious to the doctor’s reprimands.
“Try at least to operate,” he urged the doctor, “as there’s still a possibility to
succeed.”
“Stop pestering me, you fool! Go to hell with your operation!”
Addressing Czynskis as eyewitnesses he ejaculated irefully:
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“Operate on a cadaver? There’s a skull crushed with bone chips for sure
embedded in the brain. The finest surgeon, a genius couldn’t even dream about it;
besides, can you imagine performing a skull trepanation in such environment.”
He swept his hand in a wide circle indicating shelves littered with withered
herbs, smoking kerosene lamps and other stuff piled up in the room.
“If I had surgical instruments like yours,” persisted the witchdoctor, “I
would endeavor to operate by myself.”
“Thank God you don’t otherwise you’d wind up in prison,” retorted the
doctor with malice in his voice, while inspecting the young engineer’s jaw.
“Indeed a fracture and superficial bruises, nothing grave, precisely as that
witchdoctor has stated; just in case we’ll get it ex-rayed.”
With proficiency he disinfected the wound and applied his own bandages. At
length he also inspected the broken forearm. Perceiving two surgical cuts on it he
erupted in anger:
“How dared you, you clumsy oaf? You cut it with a dirty, rusting penknife!”
“The bone was protruding,” justified Kosiba, “and the knife was sterilized in
boiling water.”
“I’ll teach you a lesson for good! For this you’ll be severely punished.”
“Come what may,” Anthony interpolated in a submissive voice. “What was I
supposed to do?”
“Wait for me!”
“I did send for you. Luckily you were at home. What if you were not? I
couldn’t leave the wounded unattended.”
“We are grateful for this, Mr. Kosiba,” spoke up Mr. Czynski. “The man is
right, doctor.”
“Perhaps,” the doctor reluctantly assented, “I concede this point to you. And
may God have mercy on you if these wounds get infected,” he uttered menacingly.
Mr. Czynski extended his hand toward the witchdoctor.
“There’s something for your trouble.”
“I don’t need your money.”
“Please take it. I was told that you treat poor for nothing, but we are not
poor.”
“I don’t treat poor or rich, I just help people in need. And coming back to
your son he ought to be lying stricken there, not that innocent girl. She’s dying
because of him.”
Mrs. Czynska addressed the doctor in French:
“Doctor, can we move my son into an automobile?”
“Yes, in a jiffy,” he replied. “I will call for people just as I pack my stuff.”
He hastily threw into the black leather case the instruments and the
medications, closed it and exited, carrying it himself. Through the window
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Anthony Kosiba espied him placing it inside the limousine. Abruptly a bold
decision sprang into life inside of him.
“I’m going to borrow it!”
Availing himself of the commotion caused by transporting young Czynski
out of the addition the witchdoctor inconspicuously slipped outside. The limousine
door had been left ajar. The chauffeur stood on the other side. What was necessary
for Kosiba to do was to reach for it in a brazen quick move and sneak with it into
the addition. Two minutes later the limousine took off for Radoliszki.
No one inside of it noticed that the doctor’s valise was missing.
The witchdoctor forthwith forged ahead. He shut the door. Hurrying, excited
he spread on the table the surgical instruments he had just purloined. Wasting no
time he took the kerosene lamp and placed it by Marie’s head. Next with caution
and the utmost care he turned her inert body into the proper position. He crossed
himself and commenced the operation.
First it was necessary to shave the hair above her neck. Thus denuded skin
revealed a large blue spot with a barely perceptible swelling.
Once more he put his ear to her chest. He heard but a faint heartbeat. He
stretched his hand selecting a sharp, narrow lancet mounted on a long wooden
shaft. From under the first cut gushed forth dull, darkened blood being imbibed by
thick layers of cloth. The second cut, the third, the fourth. Assured, measured,
masterful quick moves of his large hands finally uncovered the muscles and
afterwards the pinkish white skull bone shining in contrast.
Doctor Pawlicki had guessed right. The skull bone was splintered and
several small chips were wedged or pressing against the membrane covering the
brain.
Presently the most daunting task for him was to remove with unparalleled
delicacy these bone fragments without scratching the brain membrane. It was
altogether a very difficult and challenging surgical maneuver, making it even
harder by uncontrollable convulsions of the operated victim.
All of a sudden the convulsions ceased and the body stiffened.
“That’s the end for her,” the witchdoctor suffered in his mind.
But he continued with the surgery. There was no time to check the pulse. He
didn’t take his eyes of the wound. He was unaware of people outside whose flat
noses were pressed upon the windowpanes, witnessing his desperate struggle.
The first roosters began to crow as he was closing the wound and applied the
dressing. He crossed himself again and put his ear to the chest of the rigid body,
and he couldn’t hear a heartbeat.
“The adrenaline injection,” he reminded himself.
In the doctor’s valise he found a box of ampoules, a syringe and needles.
“The very stuff the doctor has injected must be adrenaline,” he surmised.
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After the injection the heartbeat became stronger, at least perceptible.
Anthony Kosiba slumped heavily on the bench, rested his head in his hands
and involuntarily burst out sobbing.
He sat thus motionless perhaps an hour or longer, utterly exhausted and halfconscious. He got up to check whether Marie’s heart was still beating. It was
scarcely traceable; he confirmed that it was not weakening.
Dragging his feet he gathered the surgical instruments, cleaned and packed
them into the doctor’s leather case. Hesitating just for a short moment he took it
into the barn and secreted it in a stack of hay. He felt assured that it was securely
hidden there. If they won’t find it they won’t take it away from him. This set of
instruments was indispensable in execution of difficult operations like the one he
had just performed.
“What the doctor has called it?” He pondered for a while. “Yes, a skull
trepanation, certainly a trepanation. Suddenly all of it presented itself so clearly to
him, so simple. After all, this word was so familiar to him; strangely enough
somehow it flew out of his head.”
He reentered the addition, checked Marie’s pulse, turned off the lamps and
laid down on a bench nearby to be ready in a flash if the state of the patient
required it, although he didn’t expect any, and fell asleep.
The sun was high in the sky when knocking on the door had awakened him.
By the door he saw the sergeant of the Radoliszki police post; flanking him stood
old Prokop and Vasil.
“How’s the girl, Mr. Kosiba?” inquired the sergeant. “Is she alive?”
“Yes, she is, but God only knows whether she’ll pull through.”
“I came to see her.”
They all went inside. The policeman stared for a while at an unconscious
figure. “It’s obvious I can’t interrogate her. In the meantime you will give me your
statement. Doctor Pawlicki will return in the evening to issue a death certificate.
According to him she died last night.”
“Where is the doctor now?” asked the witchdoctor.
“He accompanied young Czynski to a hospital. Young Czynski is out of
danger though he can’t move his jaw. One victim unconscious, the other can’t open
his mouth. Just imagine if a criminal had not surrendered himself he could have
escaped without punishment.”
“A criminal, there was no crime; it was just an accident?” Vasil seemed
taken aback.
“You do think so? Well, has any one of you surveyed the place of the
accident?”
“No.”
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“I did in the morning. Can two large tree logs crawl all by themselves and
position themselves right in the middle of the road just ahead of the bridge, and a
pile of heavy stones too? I don’t believe in such miracles. It was a criminal intent.”
“Who did, it?”
“That notorious foul lout, Zenon Wojtylla, did it.”
All in the room incredulously gazed at one another.
“There’s obviously an egregious mistake, sergeant,” ventured old Prokop.
“This Zenon was the very first man calling for help and with others brought the
victims to the mill and later volunteered to get the doctor.”
“Can you believe it?” the policeman shook his head. “So he indeed was
telling me the truth, but I wasn’t convinced. To me it smacked of quibbling and
creating extenuating circumstances to effect leniency of the court. Apparently he
was moved by the pangs of conscience.”
“Has he admitted his guilt?”
“Yes, without pressure he has confessed to it. That he was drunk and acted
as if being possessed by evil spirits. And now we can begin with the report.”
Prokop invited him to his quarters where the members of his household
testified as witnesses; including Anthony Kosiba who couldn’t add much to the
statements of the others apart from that he had ministered the first aid to the
victims of the accident. Subsequently the women served breakfast, whereas the
sergeant availing himself of the fortuitous occasion had asked the witchdoctor for a
remedy for pain in his right side with which he had been inflicted for two months
already. He obtained herbs, thanked profusely for them, reminded Kosiba to notify
him in the event of the girl’s demise, bade them all good-bye and took his leave.
But Marie stubbornly clung to life. For three consecutive days she lay
unconscious. The only change in her state was her body temperature which was
rising rapidly by the hour. Her delicate, chalk white face was pale pink in
coloration, and nearly imperceptible breathing became intermittently rapt and at
times violent.
Three times daily the witchdoctor poured into her clenched mouth a brown
herb potion and spent the long night and the following day cooling her with
compresses of rags dipped in cold water applied to her burning forehead and her
arrhythmic heaving chest.
He looked haggard, listless and ostensibly grayer. His face turned into a
cadaverous mask, only his eyes remained alive though expressing anxiety and
desperation. He felt dead tired, despondent and defeated. The entire operation, the
unremitting care and treatment he deemed as pointless acts of futility. He felt
powerless, sensing the waning of the life of the only person dear to him in the
whole world, for who without one thought he was resolved to sacrifice himself.
On the third day he asked Vasil to fetch the doctor.
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“Perhaps he can help,” he deluded himself.
Vasil returned alone. He disclosed that the doctor had been detained in Vilna
and probably would stay away since he was taking young Czynski for his
convalescence abroad.
In the evening Anthony Kosiba sent for an old shepherd in Pieczki. He
didn’t believe in efficacy of superstitious incantations, but as the saying goes a
drowning man clutches for a straw.
The sheep shepherd put up his appearance swallowing pride of professional
jealousy, perceiving the invitation as a great distinction and privilege. He
approached the bed, touched Marie’s hand, raised her eyelid, left and right, pulled
down her lower lip and scrutinized the mouth. Finally stretching his arms above
the girl’s head and with a slight smirk he launched into his incantations.
His ancient, gnarly fists slowly opened and curled tight as though he had
gathered something unseen and was passing it from the feet up to the head. He
repeated it several times mumbling his enchantments the ending of which he
articulated a bit louder:
“…over a wide river, over alien lands, under the beating sun, under the
darkened skies and under the clear moon, for three hundred years through this
window get out of here!”
Enunciating the last word he all of a sudden rushed toward the window,
opened it wide, stuck his arms outside and commanded:
“Quick, pour water from a wooden pail over my fists.”
Someone from the group readily assisted him. Next the old shepherd took
out a few cinders from the stove, placed it on a plate, sprinkled it with a pinch of
dried herbs he carried in a small pouch slung over his arm and went with it into
four corners of the room. In each corner he blew on the cinders until wisps of
smoke wafted upward, reciting “Our Father,” upon which he returned with the
smoke to the bed of the dying girl.
The highly mysterious ceremony lasted about an hour. In the end he faced
Marie again, peered under her lids, nodded and stated with conviction:
“She’ll live. I’ve enchanted the death although she is very restive and
uncooperative; she doesn’t want to obey even my most potent charming. She’s
very stubborn. When she once has resolved to take a life she won’t depart emptyhanded, that’s why at the hour of midnight take a hen and kill it under that
window. Is the sick a maiden or a woman?”
“A maiden,” murmured Kosiba.
“If she is still a maiden it has to be a white hen. Do you have a white hen?”
“Yes, we have,” Olga nodded her head, very absorbed by the sorcery.
“Kill it, cook it and give her for four days as the only food, but only broth
and noodles, God forbid anything else. And please do not thank me for it will only
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spoil my magic. It’s time for me to leave you. Praised be the name of our Lord
Jesus Christ!”
“Forever and ever, amen!” all in the room uttered in unison.
They were leaving with the shepherd, with exception of Anthony and Zonia
who lightly nudged on the elbow of the lost in thoughts Anthony Kosiba.
“Do you believe those incantations will help her?”
“It can’t hurt, Zonia,” said the witchdoctor, shrugging his shoulders.
“But it’s just a superstitious nonsense. You can’t heal people by chanting,
burning incense, etc. My lately departed husband who was well-read and knew the
ways of the world without exception laughed straight into the face of such claptrap.
You do cure for sure utilizing your skills and practical knowledge. You shouldn’t
have called upon the sorcerer’s black power. Marie will live if that’s her fate, and
now it would be better for you if she’d die since…”
She arrested herself in the middle of the sentence in reaction to Anthony’s
facial expression.
“What’s with you, Anthony?” she sputtered apologetically. “I didn’t mean
anything offensive as God is my witness. I’m only happy for you, whereas you at
once get offended. Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll kill the hen at midnight by
myself, right under that window. I’ll select the purest of whites.”
“All right, Zonia, please go now. I need to be alone for a while.”
“I’m going, I’m going. Good night. And you lie down and repose a bit. You
are dead tired, and as to the hen don’t worry, I’ll do exactly as the old shepherd has
ordered.”
She exited, leaving the room as if it had been stilled and void regardless of
the whizzing of Marie’s lungs, which incontestably manifested the reality that even
in this eerie quiescence the things were rushing toward their inevitable closure.
Anthony Kosiba pulled a stool nearer the table, placed his elbows on its edge
and stared intently at the pale-blue, tiny veins on Marie’s closed eyes.
He did everything possible according to his skills and common sense and
even against common sense, and despite of his staunch convictions when despair
and hidden somewhere in deep recesses of his soul instincts had reached out for
help and sought consolation in incomprehensible and dubious powers of sorcery.
It was getting late, outside the sun was sinking over the horizon, whereas
Anthony Kosiba was still bitterly contemplating upon his own life and fate, upon
his fruitless existence outside of touch with people and outside worldly affairs. He
felt thoroughly isolated and detached in his humdrum existence, because only true
feelings and sincere devotion created lasting bonds, not earning bread, not even
charity and kindness bestowed upon human beings, not even the conviction of
helping the fellow man, but one’s own affections and attachments.
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“Why it repeatedly happens to him that when he gets attached to someone
with all of his body and soul, the fate capriciously injures him by despoiling him of
his object of love?”
“Not again, not what I once experienced,” he uttered, rubbing his forehead.
Abruptly a vague notion that he had sustained a similar terrible loss was
surfacing in his recollection. It had occurred long, long time ago in a dim and
distant past, perhaps even in his previous life. Oh, yes, he was sure in that instance,
too. The fate had stolen from him the one he loved, the one he couldn’t live
without.
The pulse rate increased, blood rushed into his head. Under the skull the
confused thoughts were hurling in vicious circles.
“How did it happen? When? Where? It has occurred long time ago,” he was
more than certain of it.
He ground his teeth and clenched his fists until he had felt pain in his palms.
“Why can’t I recall any of it? Oh God, let me remember at least something. I
must try harder.”
His battered, worn-out nervous system shuddered in convulsions of its
arduous strain. The thoughts were disintegrating into tiny, swirling, white bits, into
shapeless, foamy particles like water on the mill wheel. In a distorted, obliterated
picture he vaguely discerned a human form - a delicate, oval face, a smiling mouth,
gold-blond hair and finally the eyes, dark, mysterious, inscrutable…
From the dry, choked with emotions throat escaped a totally obscure to
Anthony Kosiba word, which unaccountably was very familiar to him, the name he
had never heard, yet also so dear to him:
“Beata…”
He repeated the name amazed and startled with a dose of expectancy once
more. He felt that deep inside of him he had touched upon something extremely
vital, upon something singularly consequential; another second and he’d discover
the greatest enigma of his life.
He strained his mind.
All of a sudden the stillness of the night was broken by a frightening bird’s
cry: First, second and third.
Anthony Kosiba jumped up. Only after a while it dawned on him.
“It’s Zonia killing hens, white hens at the hour of midnight.”
He in an instant rejoined Marie. How could he abandon her for so long
unattended? He touched her hands and forehead, checked the pulse and breathing.
There was no doubt; her temperature was falling rapidly. Her hands and
cheeks were barely warm.
“That’s the end, her blood runs cold,” he whispered, his hopes fading away.
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Rashly he set fire in the stove and threw a fistful of herbs into a small pot. It
took him only a few minutes to prepare a potent heart tonic. He poured three
spoonfuls into her mouth. Within an hour he checked her pulse again which beat
somewhat stronger. He repeated with another dose of tonic.
Fifteen minutes later Marie regained consciousness. Her eyelids flickered.
Her lips moved as if she had wished to say something, managing only a soft sigh.
Her eyes were clear and cognizant.
The witchdoctor bent over her and whispered:
“My dear girl, my baby, can you recognize me? What’s my name?” Marie
endeavored to speak, and although he barely heard her whisper he identified from
her lips movement the name she was accustomed to call him:
“Uncle Anthony.”
Shortly after she sighed deeply, closed her eyelids and sank into sleep, her
chest heaving slightly but evenly.
The witchdoctor prostrated himself on the floor, sobbing with joy and crying
out:
“Thank you Lord! Thank you Lord!”
Another day was breaking. The mill denizens got up. Vitalis went to lift the
mill sluice gate, and young Vasil opened the mill proper door. Agatha and Olga
bustled in the kitchen, whereas Zonia sat on the threshold plucking the white hens.
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.
95
CHAPTER XVI
In the clinic of Chateau d’Arcachon the winter season was ordinarily
inaugurated with a massive influx of Parisian arthritics in early December. When
in the middle of that month Mr. Czynski had arrived planning to take his son back
home, the doctor in charge didn’t object.
“Certainly he can leave,” he stated matter-of-factly. “He has fully recovered.
I’m not suggesting any strenuous activities for a while, but the bones have fused
nicely, the muscles thanks to massages and physical therapy seem in a quite
satisfactory condition, and as to his downcast disposition it’s in my opinion
actuated by nostalgia. He’ll revive and rekindle his temper and excitement when he
returns to his country, to his family and friends.”
“I do pray so too,” added Mr. Czynski, shaking hands with the doctor.
Presently sitting with his son in a train compartment he cogitated bitterly
that there were no illusions even ones to delude with. By design, following a
lengthy counsel with his wife, he had come alone to Arcachon to claim Leh for the
Christmas holidays. They had been very anguished and puzzled by his letters. He
had written, having been bombarded without halting with theirs, two letters spare
in content and very caustic and apathetic in context.
He had greeted his father rather indifferently, and pertaining to his trip back
home had expressed neither interest nor enthusiasm.
Now he sat in silence holding an extinguished cigarette in his hand, lost in
reveries, not being cognizant of his father’s narrative of the most up-to-date local
political intrigues, of improvement of the state foreign affairs and of new orders in
the factory. Apparently there was nothing in this world of real interest to him or he
cared about. Was it the aftermath of a nervous breakdown caused by that
unfortunate motorcycle accident that transformed this jolly, vibrant youth into an
apathetic vegetable?
Mr. Czynski employed all his charm, talent and energy to draw his son into a
conversation. Alas, Leh limited his part to dry and laconic replies, thoughtlessly
staring at the tips of his boots, sinking into a state of passive, inert peace.
At night Mr. Czynski couldn’t fall asleep; with heavy presentiments he
decided to check upon his son. The icy cold wind rushed into the compartment as
he opened the door.
“What are you doing, son?” Leh’s father ejaculated frightened out of his
mind. “You’ll catch pneumonia!”
Leh wheeled on his heel. “Perhaps I will.”
“Please, close the window.”
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“I’m hot.”
“Please, I want to talk to you, son.”
“I’m all ears, father.” He pulled up the window and sat on the edge of the
bunk. He didn’t even shiver although he was dressed only in thin silk pajamas.
“You are behaving like a child,” reprimanded him Mr. Czynski. “You don’t
take a good care of yourself; even willfully expose yourself to danger.”
There was silence in lieu of a reply.
“Why are you not in bed?”
“I’m not sleepy.”
“Why aren’t you asleep, resting? You are still recuperating. You are still on
the mending side.”
“I don’t care.”
“But we do, and you should, too.”
“Bah!” he waved impatiently.
“Leh!”
“Father, do you really deem life worthy of one’s solicitude, of constant strife
and anxiety? Believe me, father, I’m absolutely indifferent to it.”
Mr. Czynski putting on the mask of indifference volunteered:
“When I was your age,” he lied, “I also was tormented by periods of
depression and incertitude; nonetheless I also had enough sense to qualify them as
a passing fancy.”
“We do differ on this point, father,” Leh shook his head taken aback. “I’m
convinced beyond any doubt that mine is not a fleeting melancholy.”
“Yet I do contend that it is a transient dejection and discomfiture, trust my
experience, son. Obviously it’s the psychological consequence of the physical
shock in the wake of the accident. It’ll pass after you conscientiously choose the
positive outlook and attitude and stop sulking. First one learns the causes of the
blues and subsequently one deals with it.”
Mr. Czynski was not altogether certain that his cogent arguments convinced
his son. He added:
“There’s one more thing, son. Don’t forget your parents for whom you mean
more than anything in this world. If your conscience can’t move you, I call upon
your filial affection.”
Leh stirred. After a pause he volunteered:
“Again, father, you are taking for granted the power of affection with its
noble connotations, not taking under the consideration the sentiments of the one
who’s taxed with Hamlet’s dilemma: ‘To be or not to be?’”
“Believe me I do, I do Leh!”
“Thank you, father, for understanding my views!”
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“You are welcome, son. Please, lie down and try to go to sleep. In the
morning we’ll be at home. Yes, at home. You can’t imagine how your mother
longs for you. She pretends to have a sturdy character, but as we both know under
that shell of disinterest hides the most sensitive soul. Good night, son.”
“Good night, father,” Leh answered in a hollow voice.
He turned off the light although he didn’t lie down. The rhythmical knocks
of the wheels, the monotonous swaying of the wagon and the streaks of sparks on
the darkened window reminded him of another trip when he had been also heading
home, though then he had been in a hurry wishing to speed up the train. Then he
had been carrying with him an engagement ring, and his heart had been light and
alive with blissful euphoria and expectation.
I wonder whether our orangery lilacs are already in bloom. Definitely only
scenting flowers like lilacs and heliotropes. He’d enjoin to cut them all and
perhaps…and her simple grave covered by a thick layer of white snow with no
traces of footsteps near it, a small forgotten protuberance in the ground.
He’ll go there trampling its pristine white, immaculate surface. It’ll be his
first and last visit with no return. He’ll cover her grave with flowers. Will the
strong scent of the lilacs and the heliotropes penetrate the layers of snow and earth
and the wooden lid? What about his whispers repeating the dearest name conjuring
the forlorn love and desperate decision? Would she hear the weakening beat of his
dying heart amidst dying flowers? Will she be ready to greet him like the last time,
throwing her arms round his neck and thus allowing him to behold her radiant
eyes, to satiate with ecstasy his soul forever and ever?
How much he had had to weather in agony when in excruciating pain he had
managed to whisper but a couple of syllables:
“How’s Marie?”
His mother had startled and uttered curtly:
“She’s dead. Forget all about it.” Doctor Pawlicki had elaborated further:
“The base of her skull was crushed. Nothing humanely possible could have
been done to help her.”
He had lost his consciousness again, and every time upon regaining it the
awareness of Marie’s demise had been the negation of his own life. Lying with his
eyes shut, he had overheard Doctor Pawlicki reprimanding his mother:
“Mrs. Czynska, it was very imprudent of you to be so specific about the
girl’s death. It can affect your son’s recovery and induce indifference to life in
general.”
And the mother’s rebutting:
“I do not lie. Don’t you agree that telling the truth even if it’s unpleasant and
hurtful in the long run may prove to be more beneficial than beguiling falsehoods?
At any rate, my son is not liable for the accident.”
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“I have alluded to another aspect,” the doctor had hesitated. “Perhaps your
son has been in love with that Marie…”
“Impossible,” Mrs. Czynska had interrupted him sternly, as if his
supposition in itself had been greatly offensive to her.
Physically Leh had been improving daily. In the Vilna hospital they had
taken x-rays, and his wounds had healed as expected, yet his psychological regress
had confounded the doctors. That’s why as soon as it had been expedient he had
been moved to a clinic in Vienna and subsequently to Arcachon. In Arcachon a gay
international crowd ought to have a salubrious influence on Leh’s depressing
disposition. Alas, he conspicuously had shunned company, hadn’t partaken in
gatherings or excursions, and although he had perfunctorily effectuated the
prescribed therapy his spirit had remained unchanged.
Gradually first in make-believe imperceptible to those in charge of him in
his head had germinated a bold resolution, till it had matured and finally had
brought a welcome relief.
He loved his parents and knew only too well what pain and grief he’d cause
them. Yet he saw no purpose in perpetuating a life of constant sorrow, when
dismay and anguish had superseded joy, and which nothing in this world could
allay. Although he was strong to withstand numerous setbacks and reverses of
fortune he deemed such existence absurd, monstrous and felt overpowered by it.
He longed for death and with it to expiate and atone Marie’s death. Hadn’t
he invaded the peaceful, untroubled, tranquil existence of the most lovable,
innocent girl, barging into it almost forcibly? If he hadn’t, she would have lived
her simple perhaps but happy life. He had disturbed her routines, the serenity of
her existence. Because of him she’s now dead and with a stigma of shame ascribed
to her forever. It had been undeniably his fault. If he had had courage, true
courage, he’d have faced the adversities head on. He had chastised himself for
being too selfish. By not announcing their engagement he had been safeguarding
his comforts, and for what price? Just to defame her name. He believed that he had
been guilty and ought to be severely punished. He’d be his own judge and
executioner.
His atonement shall rehabilitate Marie’s honor, shall clear up her name, the
name of the dearest, the most esteemed person he loved more than anything in this
world, more than himself.
The train came to a stop at a small but how familiar station to him. On the
platform stood Mrs. Czynska, Tita Zenowicz, her sister Angela, Leh’s cousin Carol
with his wife Zula and other close relatives who usually swamped Ludwikowo
during the Christmas holidays.
The half enigmatic, dissimulating smile forced by Leh didn’t work on the
greeting relatives. They took it at its face value although they perceived in it traces
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of apathy, rationalizing that his apathy had been effected by the accident. They
welcomed him rambunctiously with ovations and encouraging words, to divert his
dark thoughts and alter his depressed spirit by involving him into their everyday
affairs. Only Angela beheld him with commiseration in her eyes.
“He’s so thin and looks so sad,” she whispered to Mrs. Czynska.
“Be friendly and gay as usual as if nothing has befallen him,” Mrs. Czynska
squeezed Angela’s hand. “He has been always fond of you.”
The four large sleds with harness bells jingling pulled into the Ludwikowo
palace court. Leh was not left alone for the rest of the day. In the salon they played
for him a gramophone and radio.
After supper he eventually extricated himself and retired to his room. He
found it in the identical state he had left it. With mounting excitement he opened
the bureau drawer. Marie’s diary was there precisely where he had placed it.
He reread it at night, some pages several times which content he knew by
now by heart. He fell asleep at dawn and woke up late. The butler brought in
breakfast and a message:
“The senior master is in the factory and was asking whether Master Leh be
good enough to drop in there.”
“No,” Leh shook his head. “Please call in the gardener.”
The gardener, rather puzzled, appeared. Together they went into the
orangery. Leh pointed to the astonished man two specific sections of blooming
flowers, ordering him to cut them down.
“All of them, sir?”
“Yes, cut them and pack them.”
“And where do you wish me to send them?”
“I’ll take them with me.”
“Are you going out, sir?”
Leh exited the hothouse without answering.
“Sir!” the gardener shouted incredulously. “You have enjoined me to cut
almost all blooming flowers. It’s not my business; what about your mother?”
“Do tell her about it by all means.”
“Your mother is out, sir. She won’t be back not until dinner time.”
“Good, John, tell her later. Anyway, I won’t be leaving before dinner.”
Leh had no doubts that mother would fuss a lot about despoiling the
hothouse of blossoming lilacs and heliotropes. In due course of time she’d guess
why he had charged the gardener to cut them.
He reentered his room and got busy penning letters. The most elaborate one
was addressed to his parents. Several shorter ones were left to a couple of his
friends, one an official statement for the police and lastly one for Mrs. Skopek.
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That last one was inordinately important to him. He confirmed in it about his
official engagement to Marie. It’ll restore Mrs. Skopek respect for Marie.
He was just signing the last letter as the housekeeper, Michalewska, knocked
at the door. Earlier she had missed the opportunity to welcome Leh. She had been
preoccupied with chores as always antecedent to the holidays. Minutes ago she
had found out that Leh would be leaving after dinner. She had dropped a pastry
form, asked the cook to continue and self raced upstairs to express her elation that
thanks to God she could see him again sound and well. She initiated her prattle
how everybody in the area eagerly awaited his return, repeated several rumors and
recounted to him what lately had occurred in the area.
Leh politely listened to her babbling, taking her for a live chronicle of the
county. She could provide him with information he had intended to inquire in the
town.
“Dear Mrs. Michalewska,” he interposed with a painful expression on his
face, “I have a favor to ask you.”
“A favor?”
“Yes, a favor?” his voice broke. “Will you be good enough to tell me
where… where they buried…?”
“Whom?”
“Where they buried that young girl who died in the accident?”
The woman’s eyes popped out.
“In what accident?”
“In that motorcycle accident in which she was with me.”
“Jesus Christ!” she ejaculated in shock. “Why are you asking me that? How
could they bury her? If you mean Miss Marie from Mrs. Skopek’s store she’s alive
and recovered completely!”
His heart nearly exploded. He jumped to his feet, reeling like a drunkard.
“What? What are you saying?” he sputtered haltingly with so frightening
expression on his face that the housekeeper took one step back.
“I swear to God!” she exclaimed. “They didn’t bury her for she was mended
by that witchdoctor in the mill, in effect of which they locked him up in jail. She’s
there in the mill. I’ve learned everything, and our young Paul the cook’s son saw
her with his own eyes. Oh my God! Help! Help us Lord!”
Leh staggered, took a few tottering steps collapsing into a heap. The startled
housekeeper was certain that he had fainted, but as she saw him sobbing and
stuttering words making no sense to her she ran out, crying for help.
The Ludwikowo’s family gathering had been assembled in the hall. She
headed there stumbling on the way. Out of breath in a high-strung voice she
bewailed that Leh had a nervous breakdown.
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She had hardly completed the sentence as Leh himself darted across the hall
and not bothering to close the door behind him rushed onto the terrace.
“He’ll get chills,” bemoaned Mrs. Michalewska, “without a coat. Oh, what
I’ve done?”
He meanwhile dashed like a madman toward the stables.
“Quick, harness the horses!” he shouted at the first servant he had chanced
upon. “Hurry up! Hurry!” he was urging them all and helping them, too.
There was a general commotion. From the palace the butler bolted out
carrying Leh’s fur coat and a fur cap. Five minutes later a large sled was flying in
the direction of Radoliszki, literally flying owing to the fact that Leh took the reins
from the driver and put the horses into gallop, not sparing the whip.
His head was spinning. His heart was pounding in his chest like a
sledgehammer. The confusing and bewildering thoughts were rushing into his
head. He was overwhelmed by the emotions of good tidings, although
simultaneously his countenance tightened in an ungovernable fit of anger. In one
minute he was ready to forgive them all, to embrace his staunch protagonists; in
another he locked his jaw in indignation. They all had perfidiously lied to me! How
could they have stooped so low? They had employed an unpardonable ignoble
ruse! They had kept from him all that time that she was alive! He’ll wreak
vengeance for such a dastardly deed! Vengeance without pity!
Subsequently his staunch vindictiveness ameliorated. Profoundly touched he
suffered in his mind how hard it must have been for her to endure uncertainty. She
had been in vain awaiting news from him, letters or a sign of life. She had been
slowly losing her hopes, forlorn, in distress by the man who had sworn to love her
for eternity.
Perhaps she even believed that I had abandoned her forever.
He ground his teeth.
So much grief on account of them! No, he won’t let it slide. He’ll slap
Doctor Pawlicki in public and next he’ll cut off his ears in a duel! Let it be a
reminder for him till the last of his days what a knave he had been. What about his
mother? She’ll suffer even more for her disgraceful behavior. He’ll tell her:
“Your son in effect of your despicable lie has just about committed suicide.
Regardless of your shameful conspiracy, I have learned the whole truth. You can
only blame yourself for killing your son, or perhaps more appropriately for killing
his filial affections. I’ll forever consider myself an alien to you.”
And never ever will he speak to her. He’ll quit Ludwikowo right away. He
didn’t think a great deal about his father either. How could he have condoned such
an ignominious scheme?
There you have it a genuine example of parental love. To hell with all of it!
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He reflected with deepening apprehension upon the tragic events that might
have occurred, given that back there in France he had been determined to end it all.
He had only deferred from it wishing to do something in Marie’s memory first.
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CHAPTER XIX
The medium size room of the Appellate Court in Vilna was filled to capacity
with the public of a typical mix. Coarse sheepskins of peasants from the Radoliszki
environs were comparable in quantity with elegant fur coats of the town
gentlemen. Anthony Kosiba’s law-suit had evoked a great deal of interest not only
in judiciary circles, among which lately had begun to circulate quite exciting
rumors pertaining to a sensational bid of defense prepared by Korczynski, but also
had stirred up adepts of medicine, because of its implications and the fact that on
the witness stand would appear none other than the most notable Polish surgeon,
the celebrated, venerated and incomparable Professor Dobraniecki.
A large group of the doctors in the court room were the ex-pupils of the
renowned professor. They with their bated breaths impatiently awaited his
annotations upon the witchdoctor’s activities. If most of them were a trifle amazed
it was on account of the professor’s testifying for the defense, not for the
prosecutor, regardless they had expected to hear a cache of dramatic revelations.
That affairs ought to take such a course could have been deduced from the
defense attorney’s countenance. He was gay and animated, nonchalantly leaning
against the table, clad in his as yet unbuttoned toga, his hands inside his trousers
pockets, chatting with a couple of his colleagues. At his elbow on the table were
piled up folders and sheets of notes which at that very juncture he decided to
ignore. He had been thoroughly prepared and learned by heart the idiosyncrasies of
his defense to the smallest minutiae.
Indeed he exhibited a cocksure confidence and had been in a state of
euphoria since yesterday, when in the morning he had welcomed Professor
Dobraniecki at the railroad station, and had delivered him to one of the private
clinics in the area, where there had been already assembled the ex-patients of
Anthony Kosiba. It had taken nearly the full day for the professor to examine them,
to study x-rays and to dictate to a stenographer his opinions and evaluations.
Attorney Korczynski had not omitted the smallest item which he had valued
as material in his defense. He particularly attached importance to his witnesses,
allowed no absences, and after thorough and meticulous analysis of notes and
transcripts of the lower court, presently unconcerned awaited the judges to open
the session.
The accused was brought in under guard, his face grim, lined up, withdrawn
and apathetic, quite a contrast to the confident and exhilarating countenance of his
attorney. Anthony Kosiba took a seat. With his head sunk low and arched back he
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stared vacuously at the floor. His beard seemed grayer, skin a shade paler and he
sported dark spots under his eyes.
He didn’t even look up and did not heed to the laudatory praises and to his
name uttered by well wishers and acquaintances, possibly he didn’t hear them
since he also begrudgingly ignored his attorney. Only the sharp ring of a bell and
the command of the policeman who ordered him to rise seemingly awoke him. He
slowly got up to his feet and then sat down again immersing himself into a
catatonic stupor.
He was the only person in the courtroom not interested in the course of the
litigation or in its outcome.
Like an automaton he curtly answered to the questions pertaining to his
personal data and fell anew into an absolute indifference.
“If I had had a jury panel in place of these judges,” contemplated
Korczynski, smiling to himself, “the pitiful picture of Anthony Kosiba in their eyes
would have been enough to find him innocent.”
In the meantime the depositions of a long line of witnesses commenced.
Sergeant Ziomek was the first of them to swear the oath. To the strict and precisely
formulated queries of the prosecutor, he stated that Anthony Kosiba of his own
free will had admitted to purloining of surgical instruments which he subsequently
had used in his operations for several weeks, and had surrendered it only under the
threat of an imminent search which in all probability would have led to uncovering
of the stolen property of Doctor Pawlicki.
At length it was the defense’s turn to quiz him.
“As a chief of the Radoliszki post have you ever received any complaints
against Mr. Anthony Kosiba?”
“No, never.”
“And how would you categorize Mr. Kosiba’s morals antedate to his
appropriating the doctor’s valise?”
“I’d say as of a decent and very respectful citizen.”
“Why haven’t you arrested Mr. Kosiba when the larceny has been indeed
established?”
“Well, I believed there was just a very slim chance he might flee the area.
His own words that he’d abide by the rules were sufficient to me. I trusted the
man.”
“The witness knew that Anthony Kosiba was not indigenous to these parts
and that in the past he routinely changed his place of domicile?”
“Yes, I was well aware of it.”
“Yet despite of it you were convinced that he wouldn’t abscond?”
“Yes, I was, and as you can see I was right about him for he indeed didn’t
abscond.”
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“Thank you. I have no more questions for this witness.”
The second to take the stand was Doctor Pawlicki. From the start he had
reluctantly stated that he had nothing corroborating to add to his earlier
depositions. Nonetheless prodded by the prosecutor he relented.
“Yes, I was at the accused place on three occasions.”
“What was the intent of your visitations?”
“Once I went there to warn him for conducting a doctor’s practice without a
license. On another occasion I was called to an accident and finally on my quest to
recover my stolen surgical implements.”
“What conditions did you find inside that place?”
“I’d say quite deplorable. The accused clothes were worn-out and stained,
his hands soiled. I spotted vessels in which he brewed herbs, covered with layers of
grime; probably those very vessels were used for cooking and never being washed.
The floor was dirty, covered with nondescript stuff mostly rubbish. The stench one
could barely stand, impossible to breathe.”
“Mr. Kosiba performed his operations in those very conditions, did he not?”
“Yes, he did in that very room, in those appalling conditions.”
“Can in such conditions during serious operations patients get infected?”
“Certainly and not only in serious, even a tiny scratch when it gets soiled
may lead to blood poisoning or tetanus.”
“What was the accused reaction to your warning?”
“He demonstratively disregarded my warning.”
“Did you see the implements he used in his operations?”
“Yes, I saw ordinary household tools, hammers, chisels, pliers, also a
kitchen knife and a small garden saw.”
“In what state were these tools?”
“They were covered with rust. On one old chisel I saw a dark discoloration
which in all probability was dried blood. All these tools were immersed in petrol or
kerosene which served as a disinfectant.”
“Is petrol or kerosene effective as a disinfectant?”
“Yes, but only to a certain degree.”
“Can you estimate the number of witchdoctors practicing in the Radoliszki
area?”
“I’d guess about a dozen, a score or so in the county; a veritable curse worse
than the plague.”
“How can you justify such a large number?”
“To put it in general terms I’d specify it by ignorance and illiteracy.”
“What about mortality rate?”
“It’s a very high rate.”
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“Have you ever been called to remedy mistakes caused in direct
consequences of witchdoctors’ practices?”
“In the court records there are my previous testimonies where I quote the
precise numbers. Personally I’ve counted in the neighborhood thirty-two incidents
in the last five years alone. In the county according to compiled data, witchdoctors
caused death of one hundred and sixty persons.”
Subsequently the defense attorney addressed Doctor Pawlicki.
“Doctor, you’ve stated that very often you were called to aid the
witchdoctors’ victims.”
“Yes, frequently.”
“Tell us, doctor, in how many cases were you involved with Anthony
Kosiba’s patients?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Oh, you don’t. Can you recall at least one occurrence?”
“No.”
“Isn’t it strange, doctor, Anthony Kosiba practiced right under your nose,
directly in your neighborhood, treating his patients in an awful if not fatal
environment, availing himself of the most primitive tools in complicated surgeries,
yet considering it all you have never heard of demise of even one operated on? Or
perhaps you have?”
“No,” the doctor bleeped nonplused after a pause.
“How can you justify it, doctor? Does he have a large clientele?”
“I have never counted them.”
“You are not telling us the truth, doctor. In your prior deposition you
enumerated the exact number. If I may ask the court’s indulgence, can we read the
part pertaining to the last statement of this witness? For the record it’s in the
volume two, page thirty-three, paragraph one.”
The presiding judge winced.
“It’s immaterial in these proceedings.”
“I merely want to emphasize that Mr. Kosiba had on an average twenty
clients daily as stated by the prosecutor’s witness, Doctor Pawlicki.”
The above-cited section was read upon which Korczynski again addressed
the witness:
“Your reply to the prosecutor’s question was that you’ve looked up Mr.
Kosiba three times, once being solicited by him?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“For what purpose were you called there?”
“Once I was called to two victims of a motorcycle crash.”
“Who personally has summoned you?”
“One Zenon Wojtylla, who, as I learned later staged that accident.”
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“On whose behest he summoned you?”
“I imagine it was on Mr. Kosiba’s behest.”
“You imagine, beside why you should deny it? Why did Mr. Kosiba coaxed
you there?”
“There were two seriously injured victims of that accident, and he informed
me that he couldn’t manage with them all by himself.”
“Wasn’t he imploring you to help the injured girl?”
“Yes, but as soon as I adjudicated her state beyond human help I only gave
her an injection to stimulate a heart beat.”
“Mr. Kosiba asked you to allow him to use your surgical instruments to
perform an operation, to save the victim, yet you flatly refused him.”
“Yes, and I contend that other doctors would also turn him down.”
“You contend? And other doctors would also refuse to operate only because
upon a superficial scrutiny you surmised you couldn’t succeed.”
Doctor Pawlicki flushed in anger.
“You have no right to offend me!”
“I object to this sort of battering the witness,” declaimed the presiding judge.
The defense attorney nodded.
“What prompted you to the assumption that her injury was inoperable?”
“The base of her skull was crushed, compounded by that her pulse was not
perceptible.”
“You have found out later, doctor, that Mr. Kosiba performed the operation
which miraculously saved the life of the victim?”
“Yes, I’ve.”
“How can you explain that?”
The doctor shrugged his shoulders.
“It’s the most fantastic medical phenomenon I’ve ever encountered. I can
explicate it merely on account of sheer luck.”
“When you arrived at the mill, did Mr. Kosiba present to you his own
diagnose pertaining to the state of the victim?”
“Yes, he did.”
“Was his assessment supporting your own?”
“Yes, it was exactly as mine.”
“In summation, doctor, you must have concluded in the end that Mr. Kosiba
by the right diagnosis and the successfully performed operations exhibited
proficient medical know-how and surgical skills.”
The doctor hesitated.
“Yes, I’ll admit frankly that I’ve cogitated along these lines in several
instances.”
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“Thank you. I have exhausted my cross-examination of this witness.” The
defense attorney bowed and grinned defiantly at the prosecutor.
The proceedings ran its due course. Several depositions from the lower court
sessions were deliberated, succeeded by the statements of a slew of witnesses
called by the defense, beginning with the old miller, his son, Mrs. and Mr. Czynski
and a score of Anthony Kosiba’s ex-patients.
Their depositions sounded almost alike: “I was very sick, he rescued me
from being an invalid or he saved my life and he didn’t even ask to be paid.”
Several of them admitted that they had received material aid from the witchdoctor,
and that everybody in the area heard about his gratuitous medical care. Mr.
Czynski declared that Mr. Kosiba hadn’t accepted offered him one hundred zlotys,
a large sum of money to anybody, which he had deservedly earned.
The evidence provided by old Prokop was very emotional. He ended it with
the words: “Good Lord has sent him my way, granting me a sinner, my family and
my neighbors a boon. And I tell you that God has sent him not the devil, since God
loves and blesses honest work. He could ask in reward from me everything I own,
and live idle for the balance of his life, just lie on his back and eat and sleep. But
he’s not of that ilk. He was always first to jump up to work, never mind was it
using his brains or brawn, toiling all the time till the last moment before the court
appointed day. And the man is not a youngster, that’s why I implore the venerable
court to free him in glory to God and for the benefit of the people.”
The gray head of the elderly miller bent in a low bow. The prosecutor
creased his forehead, whereas the spectators fixed their eyes on the accused.
Anthony Kosiba notwithstanding remained indifferent and oblivious. He sat
motionless with his head sagging unaware of the slick queries of the prosecutor, of
the clever counterattacks of the defense, and of unimpeachable accolades of
numerous witnesses. Only for one short moment he appeared to be heedful,
touched by the quiet, tremulous voice of Marie. He raised his head and his lips
stirred:
“There’s nothing left for me to do in this world… Nobody needs me…
nobody,” only to fall into a catatonic oblivion again.
Meanwhile the most prominent witness for the defense was to testify, whose
statements Attorney Korczynski had judged to be so overwhelming that alone they
could sway the weights of the scale of justice. Not only Korczynski, the judges and
the public also looked forward to the appearance of a luminary of science, a
surgeon par-excellent and a great personality, almost like a chief representative of
the state or its guardian.
Those who had never heard of him or had never laid their eyes on him would
probably envisage him the way they saw him in the courtroom. Professor
Dobraniecki was a man in the prime of his life, tall, slightly overweight though of
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strong body, with a beautiful aquiline profile and high forehead. Each gesture, the
dignity of his countenance and the masterful command of language indicated in
itself the absolutely unshakable certitude, which was inspired by the pretenses of
importance and respect duly owed to his uncontestable professional proficiency
and the high standing in the society circles.
“I was contacted by a score of individuals who asked me to determine and
assay the condition of their health,” he loftily articulated his voluble statement.
“They were all one time or the other operated by a village witchdoctor, Anthony
Kosiba. Auscultations and x-rays showed the following…”
Subsequently the professor proceeded to enumerate consecutively the names
of the witnesses, who had testified just minutes prior to him taking the stand,
followed by the accurate description of their medical conditions, opined on the
dangers and difficulties of the undertaken operations and ended with his appraisal
of their outcomes. His statement contained Latin phrases, professional medical
terms and expert delineations.
“In summation,” the professor finalized, “I’m convinced beyond any doubt
that all of the above quoted surgeries were performed correctly with a thorough
mastery of medical anatomy and saved countless sufferers from either death or the
consequences of being crippled for life.”
The chief judge nodded and asked:
“How can you, sir, interpret the fact that a man without an education and
training unaccountably successfully attained such a remarkable record in such
risqué operations?”
“I’ve asked myself the question along these very lines,” thoughtfully
annunciated Professor Dobraniecki. “Surgery in its nature is primarily an empirical
knowledge based on experience and on the practical lore past on by progenitors.
The first surgical operations were successfully attempted way, way back in
antiquity. From archeological excavations we’ve learned that already in the bronze
époque and even in the Stone Age they were proficient in setting fractured bones
or how to amputate limbs. I reckon that among villagers who are after all well
abreast with the anatomy of domestic animals, one could find perceptible
individuals who with time smattered sufficient skills necessary to execute
uncomplicated surgeries on humans.”
“But in our case, as you sir have stated,” remarked the presiding judge, “the
bulk of operations was complicated and highly hazardous.”
“Indeed. That’s why I confess I was astounded by it myself. Our witchdoctor
has had not only lots of practice but has been also endowed with a phenomenal
talent and…”
He reflected for a moment and added:
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“…and intuition, yes, I’ve said it right, the uncanny surgical intuition seldom
bestowed on a mortal. Personally I can only recall one genius surgeon with such
sure hands and intuition.”
“What do you mean, sir, by the sure hands?”
“By the sure hands, well, mainly the steadfastness and precisely executed
cuts.”
“Thank you, sir,” said the presiding judge. “Are there any follow ups from
the attorneys?”
“I have one,” jumped up Waclaw Korczynski. “Professor Dobraniecki, have
you found among Anthony Kosiba’s ex-patients anyone with traces of infection?”
“No, I’ve not.”
“Thank you sir, very much.”
The professor bowed and took a seat in the first row, beside Czynskis.
Presently for the first time he was able to take a good look at the accused. He
beheld a square shouldered, emaciated bearded man of age of fifty odd years.
“Aha, that’s their witchdoctor,” he figured out by now very much intrigued
by the mystifying affair. He was about to turn away when he had noticed the
abrupt transformation in the accused countenance.
Anthony Kosiba was staring at him in a particularly forceful, almost
catatonic gaze, whereas his mouth expressed an incomprehensible smirk, enigmatic
and defiant.
“What a weird behavior,” the professor noted matter-of-factly and turned
away. Shortly after he set his eyes at him again; the expression of the gaunt
witchdoctor hadn’t changed; he was literally piercing the professor with his fervid
ogling.
The professor uneasily stirred in the chair and shifted his attention to the
prosecutor, who at that very minute was about to deliver his closing statement. He
narrated in a monotonous drone, which possibly took away the edge of his
suggestive arguments from his short, factual sentences, which were devoid of
emotions yet logically flawless. The prosecutor, with poor grace, conceded that the
verdict of the lower court might have been perceived by those oversensitive as too
severe. He reluctantly admitted that Anthony Kosiba was not one of the worst
kinds of the charlatans, and even admitted that the perpetrated larceny had been
prodded by noble intentions.
“But we here,” he carried on dispassionately, “do not dispense charity. We
are the representatives of the law, and we should never forget that the accused
broke the law.”
Professor Dobraniecki endeavored to focus on the prosecutor’s peroration,
although he was distraught by the irritating sensation; he almost felt on his neck
the penetrating stare of Kosiba’s eyes.
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“What does he want of me?” he questioned himself. “Is this the way to repay
me for what I’ve done on his behalf?”
“Undoubtedly one could argue of the extenuating circumstances,
nevertheless,” the prosecutor wearily carried on with his invective, “we cannot
ignore the fact that theft will forever be theft. Concealing stolen property
constitutes…”
No, it was useless for Dobraniecki to try to concentrate. The eyes of the
accused had a magnetic like power. Professor Dobraniecki almost in anger looked
back at him and was amazed to see him sitting passively with his head down,
whereas on the railing inertly rested his huge, gnarly, bear like hands.
Unexpectedly in the professor’s mind was born not a nonsensical notion.
“I have seen that man in the past.”
His memory instigated its detailed search, and he had always relied on his
encyclopedic memory; it had never ever failed him. Subsequently upon a lengthy
deliberation he eventually convinced himself that for a moment he had deluded
himself by some transient, incidental recollection. Perhaps it had been one of his
patients of the old times who had resembled Kosiba, anyway he didn’t ponder
upon it much longer, because in turn Attorney Korczynski stood up and resounded
electrifying in his metallic baritone.
“The Honorable Judges, in the misfortune of miscarriage of justice and in an
array of misunderstandings my client found himself in this room, facing the
tribunal of judges. He ought not to be here, gentlemen, after all, this very court is
not the proper arena for judging and evaluating his deeds. Anthony Kosiba at this
juncture ought to be in the assembly hall of a university, facing the body of the
academic senate, not being sentenced but being awarded the merit of ‘doctor
honoris causa’ of the medical faculty.”
“Oh no, no, Venerable Judges, I’m not aroused by fancy! I’m not after
oratorical effects and most importantly I don’t reach for unreachable. And if today
it’s impossible to award our witchdoctor with such distinction it is only on account
of an inadvertent oversight of the state’s administration. They arbitrarily use their
own norms and standards for assessments of professional qualities. The Honorable
Judges! We do not trust with human life a doctor whose abilities are not
guaranteed by a medical diploma, whereas without much concern we do trust
engineers who erect buildings, construct railroads and bridges, etc., etc. I can quote
a litany of names of renowned scientists who lecture in our universities and
polytechnic institutes, sharing their omniscience with thousands of students,
although themselves they have never completed a grammar school.”
“Alas, the above practice was proscribed from the medical profession. If it
was not the stenograph of current proceedings would amply suffice for Anthony
Kosiba to procure his doctorate. What can be more consequential, what proofs can
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be more potent to ascertain his proficiency and aptitude in all aspects of medicine
than the data compounded by this court, plus the depositions of the witnesses who
in reality did not testify as the witnesses but as the material expose, as the living
prove and documentation of the consummate skills and mastery of the accused.”
“They arrived here like Lazaruses, to whom he said: Arise! They came here
to point out their savior, to call out: Here he is! We were crippled, but he made us
walk. We were sick, but he cured us. We were with one foot in the grave, but he
saved our lives!”
“Yet the prosecutor descries a great sin in it. How Anthony Kosiba dared not
possessing a diploma to save lives of his fellow creatures? If he had jumped into a
river to rescue one from drowning also would he have been required the certificate
of a life guard?”
“I’m not a demagogue and I assure you I’m not allying myself with those
misguided defenders of superstition and witchcraft, far from it. Yet I strongly
object to the prosecutor’s manner of accusation, namely linking it to the activities
of my client with insinuations which are simply false. He has accused Mr. Kosiba
of being a witchdoctor, and stressed that all witchdoctors are charlatans availing
themselves of the full bag of tricks and artifices, enchantments, conjuring and other
nonsense. If you permit me to point out to you that the prosecutor’s mixing untrue
events with the factual ones has been misleading if not malicious in its intent, since
as it has been proven in this court my client has never employed any of that
superstitious claptrap in his treatments.”
“The other part of the accusation purporting to Anthony Kosiba’s activities
for the sole purpose of material gains has also been proved entirely erroneous. And
if in my client’s habitual calling the prosecutor finds guilt his arguments and
rationale of alleged crimes also have been shuttered to pieces, and the only motive
clearly seen and tangible for my client to transgress is a mania. Yes, Venerable
Judges! Anthony Kosiba is an incurable maniac. He is a man obsessed with
helping those who suffer and he does it free of charge! You’ve heard it right,
gentlemen, free of charge and for the price of his liberty, for the price of being
stigmatized as a criminal, for the price of a hard cell bunk and a humiliating seat on
the accused bench.”
“I won’t be wasting time categorizing the medical aptitudes of Mr. Kosiba; it
has been splendidly demonstrated by the witnesses and most of all by the luminary
of the medical science, Professor Dobraniecki. We also have the deposition of
Doctor Pawlicki, although I’m not going to indulge seeking cheap effects. I’m
going to emphasize that Doctor Pawlicki, as he has himself admitted, not even
once was called to aid the witchdoctor’s patients, and furthermore, my client saved
one from being crippled for life and another from certain death, both of whom
Doctor Pawlicki refused to aid for he deemed their conditions untreatable.”
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“Now, gentlemen, I’m going to adjudicate the other egregious amiss of the
accused, which was foremost on the prosecutor’s agenda. I’m going to emphasize
the anti-sanitary conditions in the room where the operations took place. I was
there, and I support the depositions of the prosecutor’s witnesses who attested to it
at length, though not completely. I must supplement it further. They have forgotten
to add that there are gaps in the window frames through which wind passes freely,
that there are rifts in the warped floorboards, that the ceiling is leaking and the
stove smokes and that amidst rubbish one can spot cockroaches. I also inspected
the tools Anthony Kosiba used in his surgeries, a pile of junk, rusted, bent and
notched, mended with string and wire. Anthony Kosiba endeavored to perform
extremely difficult surgeries in these unhealthy environment, using discarded
household tools and such, but for goodness sake none of the countless operated on
died or even got infected!”
“I see here in this courtroom a long array of distinguished and experienced
doctors. I’m asking you, gentlemen, shall we punish in this instance Mr. Kosiba or
to award him? I’m asking you, gentlemen, is the fact that he executed successfully
numerous complicated operations in such ghastly conditions the testimony on his
behalf or against him? And considering the above are we going to confine him to
four walls of a prison cell or to grant him a clean operating room of glass, stainless
steel and porcelain?”
The loud shimmer went through the courtroom. When it had subsided,
Attorney Korczynski resumed in his ponderous baritone:
“There’s however one more reproach which burdens that honest and
generous to a fault man, whom even the police trusted unconditionally although he
has committed a felonious act of larceny. Yes, an act of larceny! He has
succumbed to the temptation and has stolen the surgical instruments, bewitched by
its sheen and glimmer. In all fairness to him he attempted to borrow them, but
presented with a categorical refusal he has appropriated them. And why did he do
it? Why this man of probity was propelled into transgression? What kind of
situation, what were the motives that forced him to purloin another person’s
property?”
“There on the table in his room lay dying in agony a young girl. A young life
just bursting into bloom was precipitously sinking into an abyss of death, and Mr.
Kosiba believed, was absolutely convinced and understood clearly that without
these sparkling instruments he was helpless to save her. I’m asking everybody
here, what else could Mr. Kosiba have done?”
The attorney swept the public with his inflamed eyes.
“What else could have he done?” he called out. “He has done what each and
every one of us would have done in his place! Yes, every one of us would have
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stolen these implements! The conscience would have urged and propelled every
one of us, and it would have been our moral obligation to obey it.”
Flushed with emotions he hammered the table with his fist and took a deep
breath to collect himself.
“In the Austrian Empire,” he recommenced, “they used to award heroes with
a singularly distinguished medal of honor. It was granted to those gallant soldiers
who in their death defying acts of chivalry broke the rules or discipline. It was one
of the highest in merit and of the least in numbers of medals representing the
noblest distinction of the privileged few. If Polish courts, accordingly, had meted
out along with punishment also rewards, such a medal of honor for breaking the
rules would have been proudly displayed on Mr. Kosiba’s chest while leaving this
room.”
“Alas, such medals do not exist, so then in their place let us shake his
callused and soiled hands, these most immaculate and miraculous hands, and let
everybody feel privileged being thus exalted.”
Korczynski bowed and sat down.
Professor Dobraniecki was not unduly surprised to discern in the defense
attorney’s countenance, in his sagging eyelids and creased forehead anxiety and
emotional strain, at any rate, he himself was similarly affected as was the public.
One of the judges unremittingly wiped the corner of his mouth, while the other two
sat motionless with their eyes riveted to their note pads on the table.
The verdict of innocent seemed to be the only forgone conclusion, even
more so when the prosecutor had declined to replicate.
“The accused is granted to make a statement,” officially enunciated the
presiding judge.
Anthony Kosiba didn’t even stir.
“You can make your statement now,” the attorney shook him by the elbow.
“I’ve nothing to say, I don’t care one way or another,” he verbalized with a
painful expression on his face and inertly slumped into his seat again.
If one’s attention at that very minute had been focused on Professor
Dobraniecki one in astonishment would have seen him abruptly paling, making
frantic gesticulations, as though he had attempted to rise, and then opened wide his
mouth as if readying himself to cry out.
But no one had descried it. They all rose en masse, because the judges stood
up all set to deliberate the verdict. As they were exiting amidst the commotion of
voices and pushing chairs several notables surrounded Korczynski, congratulating
him on so splendidly executed defense. Many went outside for a smoke.
Professor Dobraniecki perfunctorily joined them. His hand shook as he
pulled out a cigarette case. He found an empty bench in the farther corner of the
hall and collapsed on it.
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Yes, he had recognized him! He was one hundred percent certain now. The
witchdoctor, Anthony Kosiba, was none other than Professor Rafael Wolf!
That voice!
Oh, he could never forget that voice. Hadn’t he for years imbibed its
resounding timbre, first as a young student of medicine, later as his assistant and
finally as an aspiring young doctor under the auspices of the great scientist. He
must have been blind not to recognize his features. He ought to have discerned
them at the first glance at him irrespective of his hoary hair and beard.
Bah! What an addle-patted fool he had been. Prior to recognizing Anthony
Kosiba he ought to have detected the Wolf’s uncanny modus operendi while
examining the witnesses. How gullible he had been to believe that a village
witchdoctor could have successfully executed complicated operations in so a
masterful fashion, the operations that he himself, Professor Dobraniecki, would
have hesitated to undertake?
How couldn’t he have discerned Doctor Rafael Wolf’s unerring hands? You
fool! In addition, there had been other signs pointing in the same direction. Among
the witchdoctor’s patients there was a maiden operated on the base of her skull.
Dobraniecki had been intrigued by her name, Wolf; being in haste it hadn’t
occurred to him to investigate further, after all, Wolf was quite a popular name,
himself he had had several patients so named. And again he ought to have been
more perceptive. The age of the girl rightfully corresponded to the age of Professor
Wolf’s daughter. When she had abruptly vanished together with her mother she
was six or seven. Yes, suddenly it all became so clear to him.
Was it a coincidence, Anthony Kosiba and her together?
The professor discarded an unlit cigarette and rubbed his forehead. He was
perspiring.
So after all, he’s not dead! He hadn’t been killed! He mulled dejectedly
nodding his head.
He had ensconced himself in the province among peasants, under an
assumed name. He had concealed himself here with his daughter, but why hadn’t
he changed her name? Why did father and daughter pretend to be not related to
each other?
In an instant he recalled the part of conversation with that maiden during the
examination: “Uncle Anthony exhibits to me more affection and consideration I
might have expected from my own father.”
Why play an obvious comedy? And her father too! It would have been
enough for him to stand up and utter: I have an unimpeachable right to treat sick
and operate. I’m not a witchdoctor, Anthony Kosiba. I’m Professor Rafael Wolf.
And be free!
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Why he so inflexibly adheres to his bogus identity? Why didn’t he disclose
his real name already in the lower court rather than endure a three-year jail term?
If Professor Dobraniecki hadn’t known intimately his old chief and mentor
he might have surmised that Professor Wolf’s self-banishment had been effected as
the consequence of a committed felony or a crime. Even at that very moment he
would indignantly shrug his shoulders if anybody had suggested it to him.
No, there must be another tenable reason.
How vividly he recalled in retrospect those immediate days when Professor
Wolf had disappeared. Could the alleged flight of Beata with her daughter, and
later the mysterious vanishing of Professor Rafael Wolf have been a part of
contrived plot? What could have been their motives? They had left behind wealth,
position, society, in other words everything. They had fled, but why?
The rational outlook of Professor Dobraniecki’s analytical brains rejected
any random explanations unless they had been based on logical prerequisites or
had been justifiably secured by reasoning.
He decided not to waste time attempting to unravel the baffling mystery. The
verdict will be brought in any minute now; in all probability innocent, but what if
it’s guilty?
My conscience spurns me to notify the attorney right away to recall the
judges to hear new evidence. I immediately have to reveal to the judges that I’ve
just recognized Professor Rafael Wolf in the person of Anthony Kosiba.
Dobraniecki bit his lips, lost in apprehension.
Yes, that’s what I’m incumbent to do.
Yet he didn’t abandon the spot. The thoughts raced through his head and the
wild imagination of the aftermath grew out of proportion to reality.
Before he commits himself he’d better painstakingly and dispassionately
reflect upon it and weigh its consequences. He had never been rash in his decisions
and eschewed intensely those who acted blindly or on impulse.
“First of all collect your senses,” he castigated himself in an incise language
he used to scold his patients.
He pulled out a cigarette case and with relish lit a cigarette. In a
contemplative mood he noticed that the cigarette was dried up and crumbling, that
recently he had smoked fewer cigarettes than usually, and that he ought to force
himself to limit them to twenty per day. These simple distractions and sideline
retrospections steadied his nerves like tonic, and at once availing self of its effect
he recalled an important aspect he hadn’t taken under consideration, which
altogether could modify the result of his speculation. Witchdoctor Kosiba at the
beginning of the court session had openly grinned at him in rather friendly manner.
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He had peered at me as at one well familiar to him, whom he had
unmistakably identified. He hadn’t concealed that he had been struggling with his
memory. What could all this mean?
There was only one plausible solution. Professor Wolf did not care being
unmasked under the assumed name disguised as a witchdoctor. So why had he put
up with this farce? To this conundrum supported by the above cogitation fitted
only one answer:
Anthony Kosiba himself had not the slightest idea who in reality he was?
Suddenly Professor Dobraniecki came to realize that he had solved Professor
Wolf’s enigma. He sprang to his feet and exclaimed:
“Yes, retrograde state of amnesia, a complete loss of memory! Dear God, he
has been wandering about for years, sinking to the level of a common laborer.”
Professor Dobraniecki knew perfectly well how to cure that unfortunate
martyr - merely by telling him straight into his face his name or remind him of any
peculiarities of the past, or show him any of his personal possessions.
He may suffer the initial psychological shock, though even the strongest
psychological shock presented no real peril. Several hours or days later Professor
Wolf would regain fully his faculties, including the memory and with it…
How would these new developments affect the future?
In front of Professor Dobraniecki’s eyes of mind were dancing the pictures
of the sequel succession of unavoidable events. First and foremost the front page
news of Professor Wolf’s tragic odyssey and happy ending would sweep all over
the country. Professor Wolf would reappear triumphantly in the Capital, to reclaim
his villa, his wealth and his exalted position as a protagonist of medical profession.
His dramatic comeback would gain him more accolades, more esteem, more
notoriety, and his name would be sanctified by the halo of martyrdom,
unhappiness, humiliation and by the stigma of a witchdoctor ascribed to a surgical
genius who no matter the situation, with or without assisting staff, operating
rooms, instruments, etc., had performed veritable miracles.
And how is this going to affect my career?
Professor Dobraniecki tasted bitterness in his mouth. What impact would it
have upon his elevated position, which he had attained by toiling and striving
incessantly for a long period of dozen or so years, to reach the pinnacle, the
primacy in the field of medicine? Obviously he’d be applauded for his discovery;
he’d bask in glory for a day or two, perhaps. But what the next day would look
like?
By a common consensus of the faculty and the public he’d be relegated to
the second place, and forever would be overshadowed by Professor Wolf. They
wouldn’t discharge him from the university, however under the pressure he’d of
his own accord surrender the professorship, the presidency of the clinic and other
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notable positions like for instance the chairmanships of numerous prestigious clubs
and associations.
Yes, to get up, reenter the courtroom and to expound that Anthony Kosiba is
Professor Wolf amounts to forfeiting all his achievements and privileges and all
the power he wielded at present, to arrest the progress of his career, of his
ambitions, to curtail fame, in effect to sacrifice everything that was dear to him.
He had to adjudicate upon one seemingly less important item of the past;
even now he blushed recollecting it, a silly, unnecessary lie, not even a lie, a
boasting and a caprice of vanity. In the biography of Professor Wolf penned by
him there had been a small culpable passage which seemingly forever had taxed
his conscience, and for which he had never forgiven himself. He had written about
a certain then unorthodox treatment in the university clinic, though nowadays quite
applicable, which he had credited to himself.
Although he didn’t consider it a lie in the literary sense of its meaning, at
most a misrepresentation, regardless it’d be perceived by Professor Wolf as an
utter lie.
It’ll be only if Professor Wolf recovers his memory.
“What shall I do?” he pondered in anguish.
Would it be dastardly of him to withhold the truth?
After all, for Wolf it wouldn’t be difficult to acquiesce to living conditions
he had been acclimated for so many years.
Was it fate or an ill-omened streak of luck that Korczynski had coaxed him
as a witness? One chance in a million, and why to the devil, I had consented to it.
Blind fate, damn it again, if not by it Anthony Kosiba to his dying day would have
remained Anthony Kosiba and would have never felt being wronged.
“That’s right. I’d better reconsider in details the basics of that last
assumption. If one is not aware that he has been victimized one doesn’t suffer.
Wolf can’t even imagine being someone else. He’s accustomed to his lot in a
natural way. He is happy the way he is,” he rationalized along these lines.
The sharp bell ring echoed through the court hallway.
“Stand up, please! The court is in session!” The court officer’s voice reached
Professor Dobraniecki’s ears.
He didn’t quit the bench, even when in the courtroom the judges pronounced
the verdict.
“What if they will adjudicate him guilty?” an agonizing notion rattled in his
head. He clenched his fists.
“No, they can’t and they won’t,” he tried forcibly thrust it into his mind.
Shortly after ovations, footfalls and the noise of moving chairs filled the
courtroom. The door flew open. The public rushed into the hallway.
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It was easy to deduce from the people’s reaction that the judges this time had
favored the accused. Professor Dobraniecki heaved a profound sigh of relief. He
felt the onerous burden of responsibility lifting off his back.
The rowdy crowd laughing, gesticulating and commenting aloud passed by
him toward the exit - peasants in coarse sheepskin coats, doctors, lawyers, the old
miller with his son, Czynskis and lastly in the largest group Anthony Kosiba with
his attorney, young Czynski and Marie.
Attorney Korczynski approached Professor Dobraniecki. He was saying
something, elated, expressing his gratitude.
The professor forcing a smile shook their hands, though he didn’t dare to
look up. When he did, for a moment, he met the eyes of Anthony Kosiba. With all
the power of his will he forestalled himself from crying out. Kosiba’s penetrating,
half-conscience gaze was tantalizing to him.
Finally they walked away. Dobraniecki emotionally drained collapsed on the
bench.
He passed an agonizing night, unable to sleep a wink, tossing and turning.
He was lodging in the best hotel in which he was allocated the most comfortable
room, complements of Attorney Korczynski. It was quiet, quaint and cozy, yet he
couldn’t fall asleep. Early in the morning, tired of insomnia, he pressed the button
and ordered a cup of strong tea and cognac.
Having emptied almost the full bottle, feeling its effect, he succumbed into a
heavy slumber.
He woke up with a splitting headache. The bellboy brought the mail and
several telegrams on a silver tray. In one he had been reminded about a convention
in Zakopane where he was to serve as an M.C. In another his wife had urged him
to quit Vilna and speedily return home.
“There are two gentlemen outside,” the bellboy informed him, “asking for an
appointment, sir.”
“Not today,” the professor waved his hand. “I’m under the weather. Please
convey my apologies.”
“Including Mr. Korczynski?”
“Yes, including Mr. Korczynski.”
He rose late in the evening. He had to pack in a hurry to catch a train to
Warsaw, but he was too worn-out to overcome the lassitude and apathy. For
several hours he aimlessly wandered about the town, finally bought all daily papers
and returned to the hotel, where he anxiously pored over the spacious and
exhaustive accounts of Kosiba’s law-suit and annotations on motives of his release.
“Luckily everything has turned out all right, the way I’ve predicted,” went
through his head, attempting to assuage his anxiety. “I’m too sensitive. I’d better
get control of my nerves and try to relax.”
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Alas, his resolution availed him nothing. When at last he was about to pack
his luggage he grew so dispirited and exasperated that he had to order another
bottle of cognac; despite of it he spent the second sleepless night.
In the morning he woke up with, he believed, the only right solution to his
predicament. He walked out without breakfasting, took the first taxi in the street
and gave Korczynski’s address.
“Welcome, dear professor,” called out the attorney. “I was seeking you out
yesterday at your hotel; I was told you were indisposed.”
“Yes, I’m sorry to say I was. Can I have a word with you in privacy?”
“Please do come in, sir.” He went to the inner door and closed it. “I’m all
ears, sir.”
“What’s the name of the young maiden, Czynski’s fiancée?”
“Wolf.”
“Is it by chance Mary Yolanda?”
“Mary, I’m sure of it, the middle name I’ll get it in a jiffy.”
He took a folder out of the drawer of his desk, opened it and read out:
“Mary Yolanda Wolf, daughter of Rafael and Beata, nee Gontynska.”
He looked up. The professor laggardly sank into an armchair. His face was
waned and drawn, eyes clouded.
“Mr. Korczynski,” he sputtered out with difficulty, “I’m going to shock you
with what I’ve just unearthed; she is his daughter.”
“Whose daughter?”
“Anthony Kosiba’s.”
“Anthony Kosiba’s daughter? I don’t understand one thing, sir.”
“Does Kosiba know that she is his daughter? What about her? Does she
know that he is her father?”
“Professor Dobraniecki, there must be a gross misunderstanding. It’s true
that Kosiba was always well disposed toward her, and at one point took care of her
and treated her like his own daughter, but I assure you, sir, there’s no blood
relation between them.”
Dobraniecki impetuously shook his head.
“And I assure you that he is her father by blood. I tell you, Kosiba’s real
name is Rafael Wolf.”
Letting the truth out appeased his conscience with a telling effect.
“I can hardly believe it, sir.”
The professor was speechless for a moment.
“Nonetheless it’s the undisputable truth,” he owned up as if he were
confessing. “I’ve recognized him. I’m not mistaken. That witchdoctor is none other
than Professor Wolf who mysteriously got lost thirteen years ago.”
Abruptly he stood up and initiated his frenzied pacing about.
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“I must see him right away. Please, take me to his place.”
The attorney suspected that the professor had suffered a temporary nervous
breakdown.
“Please sit down, professor,” he put in gently. “It’s obviously a mistake.”
“There’s no mistake. He is Professor Wolf. Haven’t you heard of the
renowned Warsaw surgeon of that name?”
“Certainly I have, sir. Why, even your own clinic is named glorifying
Professor Wolf.”
“Thirteen years ago Professor Wolf vanished like into thin air. The rumor
held that he committed suicide purportedly taxed by some family troubles, but his
remains were never recovered. I was his assistant at that time, his right hand. After
his evanescence, I took over his faculty department, his presidency of the clinic,
etc. I tell you, that’s him!”
“It sounds too fantastic,” vocalized Korczynski with more credulity in his
voice. “I can’t comprehend any of this; why he has concealed his name for thirteen
years and has disguised himself under an obscure alias? Why?”
“Because of amnesia, he has lost his memory, totally, every bit of it.”
“It’s hard to accept this, for the long thirteen years?”
“Certainly, his memory went blank.”
“I apologize, sir, hearing it straight from you I shouldn’t have any doubts,
though being a dilettante I’ll ask, from the scientist point of view is such
occurrence probable?”
“Definitely, it’s called amnesia retrograta. Several identical cases have been
documented. The retrograte loss of memory, it erases clearly the past from one’s
mind. There were numerous a like incidents diagnosed after the last war.”
“Is this usually the aftermath of a psychological strain or shock?”
“There are variegated causes leading to it, but amnesia retrograta nearly in
every instance follows as a result of loss of memory.”
“Is it curable?”
“Speaking in general terms it is. Now we are wasting time gabbing. Tell me
where I can find him?”
“Kosiba? He departed with Czynskis. Professor, what a surprise! I can
hardly believe! Are you absolutely sure about him?”
“Absolutely!”
“My, my, if I had learned this before the court proceedings I’d have made
the prosecutor and the judges look like fools. Can you imagine how the public
would have reacted to it? It would have been a riot.”
Dobraniecki was the least inclined to appreciate the attorney’s vagaries.
“It all dawned on me later during the sentencing,” he said vaguely,
attempting to mollify his inner anxiety. “Now, give me the Czynski’s address.”
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“Are you intending to go there right now?”
“Of course I’m!”
“And you hope to cure Kosiba, or should I say Wolf of his handicap?”
“There’s no need for cure, not at all. It’ll be enough just to remind him his
real name. If that won’t do, well, I see no hope for him.”
“Yet he retained the most essential part of his memory, his surgical skills for
instance.”
“That’s right. I’m positive that he’ll snap out of it without a hitch,” solemnly
enunciated Professor Dobraniecki, taking his leave.
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CHAPTER XX
Chugging and puffing the train pulled into a small, wayside station. The
morning was brisk and sunny. The roofs of the station buildings were covered with
thick layers of snow, whereas the boughs and branches of trees sagged burdened
with powdery pillows. The sweeping vista opening from the platform on an ocean
of sheer, scintillating whiteness presented itself unreal, exciting and bewildering
with its portentous stillness.
Professor Dobraniecki, enchanted, beheld that pristine expanse. He missed
the country. The landscape he currently admired had bewitched him like an
artificial, pretentious gigantic decoration of unimaginable beauty.
It took several minutes for him to delve deep into his memory, to reach and
touch the old sentiments and the former acquaintances before being caught up in
the race; to recall the yesteryears of peace of mind. In all fairness wasn’t he born
and reared in a like country?
“Also amnesia,” he reflected pensively. “One embroiled in city affairs severs
his roots. One falls into the rhythm of work, career, chasing after and simply
relinquishes memories of existence of serene places, where peace reigns and the
truth touches you directly, not by means of radio loudspeaker or printed media.
How conveniently we all tend to forget it.”
He heard behind him crunching footfalls in the snow and a voice:
“Are you going to Radoliszki, sir?”
“No, I want to go to Ludwikowo. I’d like to hire a sled or a wagon.”
“It shall be organized, no problem. I’ll tell Pawlak to harness his team. He’ll
be here in a flash.”
The flash meant half an hour, and the ride in a sled to Ludwikowo over the
road blanketed with fresh snow another half an hour. When they had finally passed
through the palace gates it was already high noon. Alerted by the dog barking the
housekeeper, Michalewska, shielding her eyes from the reflection of the sunrays of
the snow curiously sized up a stranger.
“If you are coming about the factory business, Mr. Czynski is not at home.”
“No, I wish to see young Mr. Czynski.”
“Please, do come inside.”
“Telling the truth I came to see Mr. Czynski’s fiancée, Miss Wolf.”
“She isn’t here either.”
“She isn’t?”
“All of them have gone to Radoliszki.”
Professor Dobraniecki was in quandary.
“Will they return soon?”
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“That’s unlikely, I’m guessing aloud. They went to arrange a wedding date.
For sure the vicar won’t let them go without lunch.”
“I’m in a hurry. Perhaps you know of whereabouts of Mr. Anthony Kosiba?
In Vilna I was told that Czynskis took Mr. Kosiba in.”
“You were told right. They took him in, but he scorned their hospitality.”
“Scorned? I don’t understand.”
“In goodwill they provided for him a cottage to live in, over there beyond
the garden, though he turned them down.”
“Where is he now?”
“Where else can he be, back in the mill with old Prokop, the miller. He
maintains he likes it there in the mill best. He is getting ‘gaga’ with his age. I’m
awfully sorry babbling about keeping you outside, although the weather is rather
mild. Won’t you come in, please?”
Dobraniecki was vacillating for a moment.
“No, thank you kindly. I’m pressed for time to get to Radoliszki with an
important message that cannot be delayed.”
“If you, sir, want to get in touch with Czynskis your best bet will be the
vicarage.”
“Thank you again and good-bye.”
The driver cracked the whip, the professor wrapped his legs in sheepskins,
and the sled took off for Radoliszki.
Apparently bad luck had stalked the professor since morning. At the
vicarage he was told of the presence of senior Czynski and his wife whom he
didn’t hanker to see in such a hurry. From their chauffeur he learned that Leh
Czynski with Miss Marie had gone to the cemetery where Marie’s mother was
buried. On the way they might have dropped off at the mill to see the witchdoctor.
Marie stopped by the tomb of her mother. It was a simple village grave with
a small wooden cross adorned with a withered wreath, half covered by snow. She
knelt in the snow and prayed. Leh joined her. The witchdoctor took off his cap and
stood there in silence.
The young couple was ending their praying.
Leh took the flowers out of the box, whereas Marie removed the snow from
the base of the cross thus revealing a metal plaque with an inscription on it.
Anthony Kosiba cast his eyes on it and read it out aloud:
“The late Beata, nee Gontynska.”
He took one shaky step forth, desperately stretching his hands out.
“Are you all right, sir?” Leh ejaculated frightened out of his wits.
“Uncle!”
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“Dear God!” uttered the witchdoctor. Abruptly his memory had revived
itself with startling clarity.
He was shaking fitfully and from the depth of his huge frame issued a
stifled, inhuman moan. He was losing control of his senses and was on the verge of
collapsing. Marie and Leh held him firmly under his arms.
“Uncle Anthony, what’s happening to you?” whispered Marie in a broken
voice.
“Mary Yolanda! My dear daughter, my dear child,” he blurted out, sobbing.
They were not able to support the inert weight of the witchdoctor. Gently
they let him down to the ground. The words he had articulated sounded very
mysteriously, particularly calling Marie’s middle name to which she was not
accustomed to and had heard it very seldom even from her mother, and it had been
only in moments of endearment way back in her childhood. There was no time for
further deliberations. Anthony Kosiba had sustained a nervous breakdown.
Hunched, with his hands covering his face, he was crying uncontrollably.
“We’d better move him into the sled,” suggested Leh. “I’m going to fetch
the driver. Alone we can scarcely budge him.”
He was about to walk away when unexpectedly the tall figure of Professor
Dobraniecki, like an apparition, had loomed in the ally. They were astonished by
his presence here and at the same time gladden by it.
“My respects, sir,” Leh shook hands with the professor. “Mr. Kosiba has
suffered a nervous seizure. How can we help him?”
Professor Dobraniecki shook his head and said:
“Right now we can’t,” then facing Marie apprised her in a staid voice: “Miss
Marie, let your father relieve himself crying.”
Seeing her eyes wide-open, he appended:
“He is your father, Miss Marie. His real name is Rafael Wolf. Thank God he
has recovered his memory on his own. Let’s walk away a bit farther. Your father
needs to be all by himself.”
They stood there a few paces away. Professor Dobraniecki in halting
sentences narrated what recently had transpired.
Meanwhile the tears appeased the witchdoctor. He slowly lumbered to his
feet, though didn’t abandon the spot. Marie ran to him and clung to his arm. She
couldn’t see his face given that tears suffused her eyes, but she could hear him
clearly speaking in a low, solemn voice:
“May God have mercy on her soul; Beata, rest in peace.”
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TADEUSZ DOLEGA MOSTOWICZ
PROFESSOR WOLF
EXCERPTS
Translated by Anthony Stanis New York (718)2759286 2011
All rights reserved!
127
CHAPTER
I
Professor Jerry Dobraniecki slowly put away the telephone receptacle and
addressed his wife in a seemingly dispassionate voice:
“The contingency meeting of the Doctors Association will take place this
Saturday.”
Mrs. Nina fixed her anxious eyes on him and blurted out sharply:
“It was Biernacki, wasn’t it? What else did he want?”
“He suggested a few negligible organizational reshuffling.” Professor
Dobraniecki impassively waved his hand.
She could read her husband’s face too well, as not to note his apprehension
under the mask of indifference. She witnessed how he again had sustained another
heavy blow, another severe setback, or had been beset by still another misfortune,
which in vain, he had attempted to hide from her.
What a weakling of a man, a man who won’t put up a fight, who
relinquishes one position after the other, and submissively lets himself be relegated
from the limelight into the shadow of obscurity of a second rate physician. At that
very moment she nearly hated him for that.
“What in effect has Biernacki requested?” she demanded impetuously.
He got up. Pacing about the room he vocalized in the tone of lenient
persuasion.
“Undoubtedly... well... they are all right… the post must be turned over to
Wolf... and for me time off. Vacation! I’ve been the President of the Association
for too long. In all fairness we shouldn’t forget that Professor Wolf duly deserves
to be remunerated for his ordeal and suffering. The indemnity…”
Mrs. Nina burst into an ironic, strident titter. Her huge feline green eyes
glowered with arrant contempt. Her beautiful mouth with lush ruby lips, a vision
of which he couldn’t blank out even at surgeries, was twisted awry in utter
revulsion.
“Indemnity, are you blind? He has already profited from it a hundredfold
and more. He has stolen your rank and authority, your students, your patients,
your earnings. Remunerated! Hah!”
Dobraniecki creased his forehead and stated in the manner leaving no room
for doubts or challenge:
“Yes, he has been rightfully entitled to all of it. Wolf is one of the greatest
scientists of our era and a genius among surgeons.”
“Well, what about you? Six years ago when I married you, I staunchly
believed you were one of the foremost surgeons and scientists.”
128
Dobraniecki leaned on the edge of the desk, bent toward his wife and said in
a faltering voice:
“Dear Nina, you do comprehend the hierarchy of positions and authorities in
accordance to one’s aptitudes and capabilities. How can you reproach me for an
honest self-criticism, by admitting squarely that I’m inferior in many respects to
Rafael Wolf? Besides...”
“Besides,” she interrupted him angrily, “it’s pointless to continue. You
know well my position in that matter. If you lack ambition and tenacity in the
upward drive, I assure you, I possess enough of it for both of us. I will never
resign myself to the role of a wife of an insignificant non-entity. Beware! If in the
end you’ll be forced to take a practice in some god-forsaken Pikutkowo, I won’t be
coming with you.”
“Nina, don’t exaggerate.”
“Don’t you see it that there’s no end to it? I know what’s going on. Already
Wolf shows his bias for Biernacki. They’ll push you down all the way to the
bottom, whereas I can’t pay off my furrier! Of course you care little about it, but I
won’t stand it. I’m not accustomed to privation, I’m warning you!”
The tone of her voice unmistakably denoted threat and animosity.
Professor Dobraniecki reproached her:
“You don’t love me Nina. You have never loved me.”
“You are mistaken. But I can only love a real man... a fighter and a winner,
one who’s dedicated to sacrifice everything for his woman.”
“Nina,” he spoke up solicitously. “I’m doing all that I can.”
“No, no, you are not! We are slipping into poverty. We have been shunned
socially, pushed into obscurity, and I don’t fancy living in obscurity. Remember
that I’ve apprised you about it.”
She rose and directed herself toward the door. And as her hand pressed on
the doorknob, he called out: “Nina!”
She turned around. He perceived in her eyes, which minutes ago had been
flushed with indignation, cold disdain.
“Yes. Do you wish to add something?” she appended.
“What do you want from me? What am I suppose to do?”
“What?” She took three steps forth and spelled it out forcibly:
“Oust him! Vanquish him! Be ruthless and inexorable then you’ll keep
your positions and authority.”
She paused for a second and added:
“And me, if you care about me.”
When she had reached the door, he collapsed into an armchair, pondering
heavily. Nina had never thrown empty words into the wind. He reckoned also
how strongly he was attached to her and that life without her equaled to a dreary
129
and pointless existence. When six years ago he had vied for her hand in marriage
he had not been on the receiving end of her contempt. Admittedly he was older
than Nina. Notwithstanding he was at the height of his career, achievements and
glory, and in perfect health.
The past three years had taken a heavy toll on both of the above accounts.
The professional and monetary setbacks had wrecked his nervous system. He for
some time had concealed from Nina the frequently manifesting itself acute liver
attacks, although he couldn’t hide its aftereffects. He began to put on weight, slept
fitfully, his face swelled and ugly dark spots appeared under his eyes.
Nina had not even a clue how hard he had taken the latest setbacks. She had
accused him of lack of ambition - him, who through his whole life had been driven
by that very sentiment, which in its turn had elevated him above others!
His misfortune had started on that fatal day when it had been established, or
more properly, when he, all by himself, had unraveled the mystery of disappearing
of Professor Wolf. He recalled with a telling effect that very memorable day! The
event that even today struck despondent cords in his heart. There in a dim
courtroom on the defendant bench sat a bearded peasant in a tattered garment. The
witchdoctor in an outback country, having been accused of illegal medical practice
and performing surgeries with primitive household tools, the surgeries which had
saved lives of countless souls in some god-forsaken hole in the east.
A witchdoctor...
Professor Jerry Dobraniecki was the first and the only one who had
identified in the witchdoctor his late mentor and chief, and friend - Professor
Rafael Wolf, whose positions, acclaim and popularity during his absence, slowly
but craftily he had appropriated himself.
What if he had kept the discovery all to himself? Would it have been ethical
for him to condemn Wolf to interminable vegetation in squalor and obscurity, into
a permanent ignorance of his name, fame, personality, titles and above all his
roots? Today these introspections didn’t appeal to him to dwell upon them at great
length. He had cursed that very memorable day three years ago, and he’ll curse it
to the end of his life.
Rafael Wolf quite easily had overcome the effects of a score or so years of
total amnesia. He had recovered his memory as swiftly as once he had lost it, and
subsequently had resumed lecturing at the university, thus relegating Dobraniecki
to other less prominent posts, took up the management of his clinic and the
University Clinic, whereas the furor of his sadden reappearance furthered his fame
and notoriety, and with it monetary gains and the status of a celebrity.
Well, even today they anticipated from him, from Professor Dobraniecki, to
willingly resign the Presidency of the Doctors Association, and himself to propose
as a candidate Professor Wolf, the act which in itself they judged as a chivalrous
130
one, commonly expected and logical in accordance to the prevailing consensus of
all concerned, that meant his colleagues, students, patients and the faculty. Their
collective consensus expressed one logical and justifiable contention: the primacy
irrevocably belonged to Wolf. Hadn’t he himself, Jerry Dobraniecki, told his wife
just minutes ago that he himself had advanced the above opinions?
Yet it was a lie.
He had rebelled against the reality, against the necessity of constant
forfeiting of his gains and positions. As the burden of ill success and misfortunes
mounted, inside of him grew indignation of enormous proportion, resentment,
despair and plain repugnance. That’s why he was apprehensive to even discuss the
above subject with Nina for fear of betraying his latent, guarded feelings. He was
afraid that her passionate, untrammeled nature might spark a mutiny of his pent-up
anger and frustration.
And the pressure was steadily rising. Today for the first time Nina had
plainly and mercilessly indicated the lack of funds to redeem her fur coat. In verity
she possessed an array of fur coats and could splendidly manage without another,
nonetheless he had taken her words like a slap in the face. He had always been
proud of himself being able to shower her with expensive gifts, to buy for her a
fashionable villa, to keep a large domestic staff, a string of luxury automobiles and
give quite frequently exquisite parties. Perhaps not only for her sake, perhaps
partly for his own ego, for the pleasure and satisfaction as her eyes displayed that
well familiar to him glitter of pride, of power, of her elevated place in society
obtained and secured by her husband’s position and acclaim.
Nina - to lose her - to Dobraniecki it was utterly out of the question, though
he was sensible enough to realize with startle that only a miracle might forestall an
imminent catastrophe. For the three consecutive years his income had gradually
dwindled off, alas he couldn’t force himself to modify their style of living. As
want of money had propelled them to economize, he himself had drastically
curtailed his own expenditures, to hide the humiliating fact from Nina. He worked
longer hours and harder, even performed minor operations accepting menial
remunerations which often were paid to him in installments by not so affluent
patients. Yet the debt had escalated. He had been forced to take a loan to purchase
a villa, whereas there were no funds to pay the interest on it.
“Never mind that,” he thought, sulking. “I’m ready, earnestly, to reconcile
myself to the current situation, even would consider moving into a modest
dwelling if Nina didn’t take it so dramatically.”
Dobraniecki endured even more due to the loss of the prestige and the
degree of authority he had possessed prior to Professor Wolf’s return.
Not as long as yesterday he had to brook the ultimate humiliation. Not one
student had showed up at his lecture. He had fled the auditorium, ashamed, as if he
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had been chased by a chorus of sneering derisions of its empty walls. He had been
close to contemplating a suicide. It had ended with a painful liver attack
aggravated by hours of ear ringing, the aftereffect of overdose of belladonna.
Fortuitously he had been assigned four or five simple operations not requiring the
usual consummate skills and utmost concentration.
“Ruin him.”
That’s what she had meant. He erupted briefly into a melancholy chuckle.
How can he ruin Wolf? Ought he to chase the students in the corridor and force
them to attend his lectures, or ought he to wreak vengeance on young doctors who
preferred to assist in surgeries performed by Wolf, or steal away Wolf’s affluent
patients, for competition here was not effective, and everyone was well aware that
he, Dobraniecki, charged much less for his operations and shamelessly stooped to
underbid below the standard rates.
He glanced at his watch. It was nearing five. Today Nina was giving a
party. Shortly the invited guests will be arriving, though not all of them will put up
their appearances. Recently their soirees had become less attractive to their friends
and acquaintances. The gathering would be large only if the invited had known
beforehand that Professor Wolf would attend it.
“Destroy him!” Nina had insisted.
To destroy Wolf purported to undo his fame, to convince his patients of a
fallacy of their beliefs of his infallibility in medical diagnosis and his unerring
surgical hands.
He rose to his feet and started to pace about the room. There were still other
means at hand: Ant-like, or rather mole-like modus operandi, laboriously digging
and boring into these beliefs, availing oneself of foibles and weaknesses of Wolf’s
mind engendered by his lengthy amnesia. Alas, that kind of chicanery didn’t
appeal to Dobraniecki. He knew that Wolf retained from his witchdoctor’s
practice a habit of prescribing various herbs and ointments. Dobraniecki deemed
them ineffective, but also innocuous to patients. He didn’t approve Nina’s
dishonorable conduct; she at every opportunity availed herself ridiculing the
primitive if not superstitious ways of Wolf’s healing, amply relying on her charm
and allures to induce her sardonic witticism upon a bevy of young doctors whom
she entertained.
Thus employed crude agitation against Wolf usually misfired; immaterial or
not they engendered a spate of silly anecdotes which were circulated in hospitals
and clinics, in which Dobraniecki easily discerned his wife’s malicious humor.
Only the youngest of the doctors’ cadre lent their ears and readily enjoyed its
ironic connotations, themselves being averse to anything which was not modern,
and, by belittling the prestige of their renowned master thus to elevate their own.
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Sometimes they even attempted to dissuade patients from seeking Wolf’s advice,
though they seldom succeeded.
The other week capitalizing on the above rumors Warsaw dailies had printed
lengthy columns and articles of wild conjectures and speculations.
It was true that they had never quoted Wolf’s name in it, nevertheless
everyone had correctly deduced whom it was all about. Dobraniecki, not without
justice, had imputed the authorships of these articles to his wife. Lately at Nina’s
soirees he had encountered a coterie of editors who had never been invited before.
The sudden interest Nina had taken in the members of the press did not escape
Dobraniecki’s attention.
Nina’s despicable intrigues were repugnant and distasteful to him, evoking
in him a mind-boggling realization how mercilessly effective these half-measures,
ostensibly innocuous, were in undermining the authority and character even of
those seemingly untouchable paragons of humanity.
“Vanquish him!” she had demanded, “if you care about me...”
Dobraniecki bit his lips and stopped by the window. Through the bare
branches of autumn trees he admired the glimmering galaxy of white and yellow
city lights; whereas the far-off din of metropolis murmured monotonously. Outside
on the wet asphalt screeched pneumatic tires. In front of his villa, a large
limousine slowly came to a stop.
The first guests were arriving. It was necessary for him to dress up.
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CHAPTER II
Professor Wolf paused for a spell. His eyes slowly surveyed the
overcrowded lecture hall in which reigned complete silence. He sensed that each
and every word he verbalized reached each and every heart of his students, the
hearts which reverberated with affectionate responses.
“Because the doctor’s vocation,” his voice resonated again, “is founded on
one of the most noble and generous precepts, love thy neighbor, the way God
dispensed it in our hearts. The doctor’s vocation is based on trust and faith in
brotherhood of men, the most honorable and estimable features of human nature.
So when you go into the world to fulfill your mission remember most of all: love
thy neighbor!”
He stood there still and quiet, nodding his head. Thereupon he marched out
of the hall with heavy bouncing steps.
Hundreds of times he had crossed that wide corridor, accompanied by waves
of applause, which had invariably erupted at the conclusion of his address. Though
today, he had strayed somewhat from the proper theme; today he had been in a
different frame of mind.
g
In the past few weeks he had been assailed by a slew of incomprehensible
and seemingly innocuous yet injurious to him gossips and innuendos. At times he
was shocked to such a degree that he had been incapable to figure out what it was
all about. They all presented to be of incidental nature, devoid of logic if not
entirely absurd. Not only given that they were aimed at him - if Professor
Dobraniecki or doctors: Biernacki, Rancewicz or even young Kolski had been
besmirched in a similar way, Professor Wolf would have been resentful likewise.
To this very day he had refused to bring himself to believe that the entire
campaign to defame his character had been originated and promulgated from one
source. He wasn’t ready to accept such a highly improbable notion, since he had
no enemies to speak about. He had crossed no one, period, caused no one any
harm and through his entire life had adhered to the very precepts with which he
had terminated the today’s lecture.
“That’s a sheer madness,” he repeated in his distraught mind, strutting along
the white corridor.
As he reached the door of the faculty offices he glanced at his watch. It was
eleven o’clock on the dot. In the first room he was surprised by the presence of
several unknown to him individuals. They got up as he entered, whereas the
secretary explained:
“These gentlemen are from the press. They like to have another chat with
you, sir.”
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Wolf bowed graciously.
“Gentlemen, I’d hazard to state that three long years amply suffice to satiate
your readers’ curiosity. By now they are bored with my person and my life’s
story.”
“Professor Wolf,” one of the reporters addressed him, “this time we wish to
talk about one of your patients.”
“Which patient?”
“Leon Donat.”
Wolf spread his arms wide.
“What can I advance pertaining to his throat? There’s nothing unusual or
dangerous ahead of us. From the data I’ve received from Milan, the operation
constitutes a routine treatment. I foresee no problem, even the slightest one.”
“Yet, Professor Wolf, it’s a throat surgery, and that very throat earns Mr.
Donat millions per annum, not to mention his notoriety. You must understand, sir,
the public’s curiosity and concern in this operation, not only in Warsaw but also in
every country in Europe, well in the world. They all thirst for news, so whatever
you will condescend to contribute will be avidly received.”
Wolf agreed. “I must depart for the clinic, but I will gladly accommodate
you on the way there.”
Outside at the bottom of the stairs there was parked Wolf’s large black
limousine. They all climbed inside, and while the automobile smoothly glided
through traffic, the reporters diligently scribbled in their note pads Wolf’s
statement.
Overwhelmed by work only just now it had dawned in his head that indeed
millions of admirers of the renowned singer as of yesterday had their attention
fixed on the clinic. Doctor Lucy Kanska had already advanced that the Polish
press with great satisfaction had commented on Donat’s preference not trusting
Italian surgeons nor French, nor German, had put himself or to be accurate his
throat into Professor Wolf’s unerring hands, and that’s why he had traveled all the
way from Milan to Warsaw.
Although from descriptions and x-rays Donat’s operation appeared
uncomplicated and quite effortless, Wolf was not at all surprised by the singer’s
apprehension; after all, his voice was the essential foundation of his worldwide
renown, and a tiny quiver of a surgeon’s hand could deprive him of fame and
fortune. Entering the clinic Wolf felt intuitively the growing excitement inside of
the edifice as well as at the gates, where there had been assembled a large crowd of
admirers, awaiting the arrival of their idol. There was an unusual flurry of activities
in the hall and throughout the clinic. Wolf bade farewell to the reporters and on
the way to his office stepped into the internists’ room. He found only a nurse there.
“Who’s on duty today?” he inquired.
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“Doctor Kanska, sir.”
At that very juncture in Wolf’s office Professor Dobraniecki had been
engaged in a heated argument with young Doctor Kolski. Both of them had
quieted down as Wolf entered. They greeted one another in silence. Kolski briefly,
to the point, reported the medical status of Wolf’s patients, ending with:
“Professor, first of all you need to inspect Mr. Lignis’ wound. Also, Mrs.
Laskowska and Mr. Rzymski remembered themselves, asking kindly to visit them.
That’s the third floor. Now about that poor wretch with multiple stab wounds, he
is in agony induced by internal bleeding. There’s a little chance if any for him.”
“Thank you very much, friend,” replied Wolf and added:
“Firstly I have to examine Donat’s throat. Is the small operating room
ready?”
“Yes, sir, it’s ready.”
“The large one is reserved for you,” he turned to Professor Dobraniecki:
“It will take you a good four hours, I think. It would be quite a sensation if
you could save him?”
Dobraniecki shrugged his shoulders.
“I’d say quite impossible undertaking; one chance in a hundred.”
As Wolf was putting on white overalls, from outside came a hubbub of
cheering and applauding. The doctors looked significantly at one another.
“People esteem art more than life. None of us will ever receive such
ovations,” Kolski commented matter-of-factly.
“You are forgetting, dear colleague, our Professor Wolf and his notoriety,”
interposed Doctor Dobraniecki.
“Which I acquired not owing to as a doctor, but as being a patient,” Wolf
said emphatically and left the office with Kolski on his heels.
Dobraniecki dropped inertly into an armchair. His face was stilled in utter
concentration. Nervously he pressed the bell, summoning the head nurse.
“In which room did they put Donat?” he queried laconically.
“In the room number fourteen, sir.”
“My operation is scheduled at one o’clock. Please inform Doctor Biernacki
about that. Thank you. That’s all.”
When she had left, he glanced at a wall clock. He waited another half an
hour, rapidly got up and walked out. The number fourteen was on the second
floor. He mounted the wide marble stairs, knocked on the door and let himself in.
Donat was undressing himself, aided by a nurse. Beholding Dobraniecki he
ejaculated gaily:
“Professor, I’m so glad to see you! Today you doctors have a chance to
carve me up!”
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“How are you maestro? You look fantastic!” He shook hands with the
singer and continued:
“Why did you utilize the word doctors? Haven’t you specifically requested
to be operated on by Professor Wolf? Apparently you don’t trust your old doctor.”
“Bah humbug, I have utmost confidence in you, professor,” Donat
responded, forcing a smile.
“Well, that’s always nice to hear,” Dobraniecki offered with ease. “Now
own up how have you been and what have you been up to, but please don’t dwell
on your opera successes. The press perpetually provides the exhaustive repetitions
of it; will you please elaborate more on your amorous conquests. Are you still
playing the field? What I meant by it, your notorious amorous liaisons.”
Donat burst into a convulsive laughter.
“Why, there’s never enough time for it.” His eyes sparkled.
“You ought to spare women’s hearts, which I’m saying as a metaphor, and
yours, too,” Dobraniecki put in jokingly.
He hinted it on purpose. Donat despite his florid look, athletic frame and a
fiery temperament since his childhood had been handicapped by a weak heart. His
mother, being a close friend of Dobraniecki, not once nor twice had turned to him
for an advice.
Donat with flourish related his erstwhile conquest. He had been interrupted
by knocking on the door. It was Doctor Kanska who according to the rules came
to examine the patient slated for the surgery. When she saw Professor Dobraniecki
together with the patient readying for the operation she halted at the threshold.
“Doctor Kanska, are you looking for me?” inquired Dobraniecki. “Well, I
was looking for you. Will you kindly lend me a hand and examine my old patient
in number 62. He’s next to go up on the table. An adrenaline injection or
whatever you deem necessary. And please hurry up, doctor.”
Doctor Lucy Kanska hesitated as if wanting to ask something, but
Dobraniecki already had turned to Donat with words:
“You were quoting me...”
“What an enchanting sight? Is she a doctor for real?” Donat asked very
intrigued as she had exited the room.
“Yes, a young internist,” confirmed Dobraniecki.
Within minutes Doctor Kolski appeared with an orderly.
“It’s time, maestro, to go to the operating ward.”
The operation commenced on time as scheduled.
The treatment was neither complicated nor perilous under any
circumstances. In order to safeguard the throat instead of a local numbing Donat
had been treated to a general anesthesia.
137
Wolf was assisted by Doctor Januszewski and Doctor Kolski. Strong,
defused light reflected of the mirror disc illuminated the surface of the throat. On
its left side just beyond the gland there was a slightly darker spot of a growth in the
shape of half of a hazelnut. So far it had induced no discomfort nor affected the
singer’s voice, neither was it life-threatening being of a benign nature.
Unfortunately it had grown somewhat larger; that’s why it had been decided just to
be on the safe side to remove it simultaneously with the tissue scars near it caused
by the bout with laryngitis. The procedure according to Professor Wolf shouldn’t
take longer than twenty minutes, thirty at the most.
In the stilled quietude of the operating room the clock ticked out the seconds
in slow continuous measures. The longer hand reached about the eleventh minute
when Doctor Kolski in charge of the patient’s pulse had abruptly turned toward a
standing nearby nurse and gave an impatient sign.
There was no need for words.
The skillful hands of the nurse filled the syringe and promptly injected the
transparent fluid under the skin of the patient. Two minutes later she had to repeat
the inoculation.
At the eighteenth minute Professor Wolf had been forced to halt the surgery.
The operating room had become a scene of frenzied activities. The cart with
oxygen had been rolled in and an artificial breathing machine, succeeded by further
adrenaline shots.
In the twentieth minute, right on the dot, the singer had expired.
The cause of death was patently evident to everyone. The heart of the
patient had succumbed to anesthesia. Professor Wolf slowly took off the gloves
and the mask. His face froze into a stone facade. He couldn’t blame himself for
the tragic mishap, notwithstanding a patient had died in his clinic during the very
operation performed by him, particularly during a trivial, everyday treatment. He
was shocked and profoundly affected.
He had not quite grasped the serious implications and consequences he must
face in the wake of that tragic event. It was a terrible blow to him. Under his very
personal supervision, for unexplained carelessness or negligence, because of
somebody’s mistake or slackness a man died, the man who half an hour preceding
the operation had been jesting with them and filled with confidence had trusted
them with his life.
In the anguished eyes of the medical staff Wolf discerned the reflections of
his own thoughts. In the checkroom he sluggishly removed his apron and coat as if
being burdened by a paralyzing lassitude.
In his office he encountered almost the entire doctor’s personnel of the
clinic: including Doctor Rancewicz shaking his head in disbelief, Professor
Biernacki, who frazzled squinted his eyes, Professor Dobraniecki, placidly
138
smoking a cigarette, Doctor Kolski, pale with a sullen, anxious countenance,
Doctor Zuk and Doctor Kanska. They stood there in deathly silence. Professor
Wolf listlessly as in a daze neared the window. Not turning around, he asked:
“Which one of the internists colleagues were on duty today?”
Doctor Kanska answered in a low, quivering voice:
“I was, Professor Wolf.”
“Miss Kanska,” Wolf spoke rather surprised, “have you examined him
before the operation?”
He had turned at that very moment and gazed at her with a look of stern
reproach. Why did it have to be her? Why the one he trusted most, felt sympathy
for, cherished best hopes concerning her future as a young promising doctor had to
commit such an egregious blunder?
“Have you forgotten to examine him?”
Doctor Kanska shook her head.
“No sir, I haven’t forgotten. In his room I came across Professor
Dobraniecki. Professor Dobraniecki told me to check up another patient, and I
assumed that Professor Dobraniecki himself examined Mr. Donat. That’s what I
thought... that’s what my impression has been at the time...”
All eyes turned to Professor Dobraniecki who slightly blushing shrugged his
shoulders.
“Well, dear colleague, have you examined him?” queried Wolf.
Dobraniecki’s eyes fulminated with anger.
“I? Why me? It was none of my business.”
His loftily raised head and tense features expressed resentment and
indignation.
“I assumed that...” Doctor Kanska initiated again haltingly with tears filling
her eyes. “My belief was that you...”
“Go to hell with your beliefs!” Dobraniecki imperiously cut her short. “Do
you perform your duty on which the very life of each patient depends only when
you don’t presume, or when you are not confused by vague impressions?”
Doctor Kanska bit her lips in an attempt not to bust into tears. Doctor
Kolski standing at her side spoke up in a challenging manner:
“I met colleague Kanska in the corridor. She told me that Professor
Dobraniecki was taking care of Donat, being his close friend and all.”
Dobraniecki creased his forehead; his countenance visibly paled.
“I’ve just dropped in to exchange few words with my old friend. Of course I
would have checked his heart condition if it only had occurred to me that Miss
Kanska had so recklessly neglected her responsibilities.”
Tears were running down Miss Lucy’s face, her lips trembled.
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“I was not reckless... I was thoroughly convinced that... I won’t swear but I
was almost certain that you… that you were going to take care of Mr. Donat,
otherwise I’d...”
The last words were drowned in sobbing.
“If someone has to be blamed in this instance,” erupted Doctor Kolski, “it
can’t be Miss Kanska, and not in so belligerent atmosphere.”
Professor Dobraniecki’s face turned crimson. He fell one step back and
exclaimed:
“Aha! I’ve figured you out, all of you! A mean conspiracy hatched against
me! You plan to dump the whole blame on me! Well, am I answerable for lack of
discipline in this clinic? Am I responsible for negligence of privileged few? I
might have felt insulted if this damn aspersion had not been so absurd. Yes, my
dear colleagues, I’m not afraid of your intrigues and insinuations. I’m not the one
to shirk responsibilities if it falls on my shoulders, and when you are forcing my
hand, I won’t hide what’s on my mind. Yes, I’m going to tell you all what is to
tell, openly and sincerely. In the interval when I was heading this institution, such
calamitous blunders have never taken place. At my tenure I affirmed absolute
discipline. I condoned no favoritism. Everyone was accountable for one’s conduct
and liable for it. Perhaps I was judged as being too severe and autocratic, too
exacting and arbitrary, but then no one dared to play with a human life! Here we
have Mr. Donat the victim of the flawed system and waning authority, or to be
precise lack of it which in effect has killed him. And for goodness sake don’t you
blame me for that.”
His voice, his stare and facial expression exuded a bitter accusation, a sharp
invective aimed at all present there.
In the embarrassing silence that reigned resounded the composed voice of
Professor Wolf. “I wish my colleague calmed down and stopped feeling affronted.
No one here is plotting to discredit you and no one blames you for Donat’s death.
I’m directly accountable for everything that transpires in this clinic, I, Rafael Wolf,
no one else.”
“Precisely,” uttered Professor Dobraniecki with an ironic smirk. He nodded
his head and took his leave.
The melancholy mood prevailed in the clinic in the aftermath of Donat’s
tragic death on the operating table. Obviously such news tended to spread swiftly,
so that not even in half an hour the hall of the clinic became crowded with
reporters and photographers.
The untimely demise of Leon Donat, a renowned tenor whose career was
still on the rise, must have shocked the public opinion worldwide. Given that he
had died under aberrant circumstances, the above incident turned into a lurid
sensational account in the press. The reporters diligently jotted down in their note
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pads the smallest items of information pried out of doctors, nurses and even from
orderlies and the clinic servants. Only Professor Wolf refused to comment,
declaring that he had nothing corroborating to add, whereas his deputy Professor
Dobraniecki, on the contrary, obliged them willingly with a profusion of data.
He never failed to stress his loyalty and esteem for the notable Professor
Wolf, a surgeon par excellent, and added that the operation performed by Wolf
would never have ended in tragedy if certain organizational practices in the clinic
had not been overlooked but had been efficiently supervised. By the way he also
intimated with ill conceived malice in his voice that years ago during the tenure of
young Professor Wolf, who had not been encumbered by the burden of his latest
travails, such dire misjudgments were unimaginable, as they were unimaginable
when, he, himself had been in charge of the clinic.
“I wish to make it crystal clear,” he persisted, “managing a bustling
institution requires superhuman exertion and sacrifices which can’t be sustained by
anyone at a lengthy span of time, particularly by the one who has been taxed by
hard work and harrowing experiences. Each of us doctors knows that his or her
sacred duty is the well-being of patients, and that these noble premises can only be
fulfilled when we stay strong and fit physically and mentally, and that our strength
will wane and lax with passing years, even if we were not burdened by tragic
misfortunes. That’s why, by all means, I’m siding with Professor Wolf in support
to exact forbearance and condescension on his behalf.”
“You, gentlemen, and your readers know only too well the hardship and
perpetual pain triggered by the tragic events that tore him away from our
environment. Believe me, gentlemen, the duration of a dozen years of total
amnesia, the complete loss of memory, being worn-out and humiliated, living in
abject poverty among the lowest rustics can affect anyone physically and mentally
even the strongest of men. It was a miracle that Professor Wolf was capable to
elevate himself and to overcome the adversities of being a witchdoctor for a dozen
years, to go from the quite primitive means of curing straight into managing one of
the most modern clinics, where even the most durable and energetic of us would be
awed by the exacting schedule, complicated system of organization, constant vigil
and care plus countless challenging surgeries and treatments. I’m going to stress
again, gentlemen, my unbound veneration for that notable man who being of age
when any other doctor whose life runs its course without trials and tribulations
seeks retirement, still mans his post.”
Parting with the reporters, Dobraniecki insisted to be quoted literally.
“I can’t force you, gentlemen, to print me verbatim, but it would dismay me
to say the least being grossly misquoted, since the public at large might draw
erroneous inferences referring to my intentions.”
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At 5:00 p.m. all Warsaw dailies had begun to print extra additions with the
highlights of the tragic demise of the celebrated tenor. The foreign correspondents
were expediting lengthy telegrams, whereas the telephone exchange was
overloaded for hours, and it was virtually impossible to call Berlin, Vienna, Paris,
etc.
In the metropolis they talked of nothing else. In the extra additions they
published just bare facts. On another hand, the titles and highlights trumpeted
incisive invectives: “The Great Singer Dies under the Knife of Professor Wolf!”
“The Patient’s Heart Condition Was Never Examined Prior to the Operation!”
“The Victim of Criminal Negligence in Professor Wolf’s Clinic!”
Warsaw was agog. In front of the clinic a large crowd of Donat’s admirers
shouted threats and accusations aimed at Professor Wolf and at doctors in general.
Doctor Zuk leaving the clinic was roughed up by the mob, and the police only with
difficulty managed to control the situation while letting through an emergency
ambulance with a heavily injured individual.
In the clinic everyone was in a depressed if not sorrowful mood. Only
Professor Wolf dispassionately went about his daily routines. He seemingly didn’t
descry the flustered faces of his subordinates or their stressed behavior, and acted
as if he had known nothing about the town indignation, and as if he hadn’t heard
the tumultuous commotion outside.
Having finished the evening checkup of his patients as he was taking the
stairs down, they brought in a new arrival, a victim of multiple stab wounds.
Kolski was about to take charge when Professor Wolf approached him. From the
stretcher which two orderlies carried to the surgery ward came a scarcely audible
moan, whereas droplets of blood marked the passage.
“Who do we have here?”
The ambulance doctor reported:
“Some sorry loser in a brawl, I’d guess, with multiple stab wounds. His
situation appears quite helpless. Only immediate surgery could save him, that’s
why we brought him here to the closest hospital.”
“Right away on the table,” Wolf turned to Kolski.
Kolski paused for a second.
“Who will operate? Doctor Rancewicz?”
“No, I’ll do it myself,” interpolated Wolf.
Kolski imperiously issued dispositions; supervising removal of the rent
garment of the victim, a hobo with two days of unshaven growth on his face,
otherwise severely cut up and bleeding. He was in agony. Irregular shallow breath
permeated with vapors of vodka was almost imperceptible.
The operating room was ready. Doctor Lucy Kanska came to assist. She
was as pale as a sheet of paper, her eyes reddened from crying.
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“Why don’t you go home,” Kolski suggested with solicitude in his voice.
“We’ll take care of everything. In this case there’s no need for examination. He’ll
be lucky if he survives the trip to the table.”
Professor Wolf leaned over the patient. Abruptly he straightened himself up
and vigorously rubbed his eyes.
“What’s his name? I believe I saw him before.”
“They gave us only his name and surname,” explained Kolski, “one Cyprian
Yemiol.”
“Yemiol, where did I see him?”
Having removed the temporary dressing they ascertained the injuries less
ominous as alleged by the ambulance doctor. Only one wound was life
threatening; the knife had pierced the belly muscles and cut largely through the
stomach. Luckily the lungs and other vital organs had not been damaged. Still the
acute internal bleeding put the victim at a great risk.
“Two cadavers in one day and on the same table,” one of the nurses
whispered to Doctor Kolski.
“Why the professor is undertaking this operation?”
Kolski didn’t answer. Meanwhile Professor Wolf’s large, ungainly hands
with astonishing proficiency sewed up the cuts, whereas at the same time he
diligently searched his memory for recollection of that name.
“Yemiol,” he repeated it in a low voice, “Cyprian Yemiol, I know that man.”
This time the operation had ended on the positive note with the patient taken
off the table alive. The spark of life which was barely lit could as easily become
extinguished and as easily rekindled. Yemiol was placed on the fifth floor in the
charitable ward. Professor Wolf straight from the surgery headed for his office,
where the police commissioner and the judge prosecutor had been awaiting him.
The authorities under the pressure of public criticism without delay launched
a thorough investigation of those in the clinic culpable for Leon Donat’s death.
Professor Wolf was officially informed upon the preliminary inquiries that the
burden of guilt rested with Doctor Lucy Kanska, who at interrogation hadn’t
denied her culpability, which had been augmented by Professor Dobraniecki’s
deposition, who in turn had ascribed the blame to lack of discipline and favoritism
in the clinic.
It took lots of arguments and hard persuasion to convince the authorities that
Doctor Kanska actually was not directly liable for the tragic mishap, and neither
Professor Dobraniecki ought to be implicated in it. The above affair had been just
a gross misunderstanding and only misunderstanding, nothing else. That no one in
particular should be blamed for it, nonetheless blunders of that caliber ought to
never take place at any clinic, and that Professor Dobraniecki had rightfully
underlined his misgivings emphasizing the lack of strict discipline and oversight.
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“Reverting to the administrative and personnel governance the answerability
rests with me,” concluded Professor Wolf. “I’m solely to be blamed for this
unfortunate tragedy, no one else.”
“I agree entirely with you, Professor Wolf,” asserted the judge prosecutor,
putting the documents into his leather briefcase. “There’s no ground for pursuing
the subject further, although you’d better prepare yourself for the likelihood that
the bereaved family or they insurance company will sue you for indemnity.
Personally, Mr. Wolf, I’d advise you to consult a good lawyer.”
“Thank you, sir, thank you kindly.”
It was already nearing ten when Wolf had exited the clinic. Downstairs
Doctor Lucy Kanska had patiently awaited him. Her contrite, distressed spirit
moved him deeply. The nagging presentiment flitted through his head that the
poor girl in a wretched mood, overwhelmed by the adverse publicity entailed by
Donat’s demise, in her despair was likely to do a foolish thing.
With a friendly smile he took her under her arm.
“Now, dear Miss Lucy, have courage. You can’t carry on blaming yourself.
No one can be assuredly certain of infallibility of one’s action. Unfortunately
what’s done is done. As for the future we must redouble our concentration and
never fall apart owing to one ill-fated lapse of being all attentive.”
Lucy shook her head.
“It’s not a depression, sir,” she interrupted him. “Objectively speaking I
deserve scolding, and I’m aware that one being castigated becomes a liability to
the clinic. I’m resolved to accept this, all the same I wish to explain to you, sir. I
want to assure you, Professor Wolf, my culpability rests not on my negligence or
recklessness; I blame myself being overconfident in goodwill and integrity of
Professor Dobraniecki. I’ll bear the brunt of the guilt... even if they revoke my
doctor’s license. Let come what may... but please believe me...”
“I believe you, dear Lucy,” avowed Professor Wolf. “And you can rest
assured that nothing will be revoked. You’ll work with us in the clinic, as trusted
as before. I must confess to you, I have an unreserved confidence in you.”
For a while they walked in silence. Suddenly Wolf erupted in an
inordinately severe tone:
“You are young, very young and inexperienced, that’s why I’m going to
forgive you one offense which you have perpetrated just one minute ago. I’m
going to overlook that for one moment, for one short moment, you doubted of
goodwill and probity of Professor Dobraniecki or for that matter of any doctor.
Doctors might err, but there’s no doctor, not one in the whole world, who for
whatever justification would purposefully conspire to endanger the life of a patient.
You do understand that. You as a doctor took an oath to unconditionally prescribe
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to it and live by it. At the moment when one forfeits such convictions one is a
doctor no more.”
Lucy attempted to clarify her statement:
“I only wished to point out, Professor Wolf, that Professor Dobraniecki...”
“Let’s give it a rest,” he preempted, cutting her short. “Look up, Miss Lucy,
what a beautiful night to admire with so many stars to behold.”
He leaned toward her and appended wistfully:
“I like autumn, I always have; how about you, Miss Lucy?”
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CHAPTER III
Perusing the morning papers Mrs. Nina Dobraniecka’s spirit was predictably
rising. She had ordered the servant to fetch all dailies that were published in
Warsaw, and in each of them she read an exhaustive account of the interview given
by her husband. Most of the papers also ran sharp, incisive invectives condemning
crass negligence and unpardonable dereliction of discipline in the clinic, which
once had been renowned for its exemplary administration, superior medical staff
and more than excellent record, while their chief editors had openly demanded
Professor Wolf’s immediate resignation, whereas still others had questioned with
apprehension what kind of treatment the ordinary folk might expect there when the
world-famous and enormously wealthy had been recklessly unattended and not
cared one damn for. All of the Warsaw dailies hadn’t failed to remind readers
about the psychological aftereffects of a prolonged period of total loss of memory,
particularly affecting the mental faculties, which they had supported by underlining
Professor Wolf’s predilection for herb potions, a habit he had acquired during his
lengthy tenure as a village witchdoctor, even such which modern science in the
past had qualified as useless or outright perilous.
Still she adjudicated her husband’s deposition as weak and emasculated of
bite. This milksop husband of hers hadn’t availed himself of the most favorable
opportunity to deliver the decisive, ultimate blow and thus to get rid of his
opponent for good. Why had he employed those ridiculous superfluous
compliments in place of citing Wolf’s age and allude to the recurrence of his old
amnesia? Frenetically leafing through the papers Mrs. Nina pressed the bell.
“Is the professor still asleep?” she asked the maid.
“The professor left one hour ago, madam.”
“One hour ago?” Mrs. Nina seemed puzzled.
She had not seen her husband yesterday. She had read about Donat’s death
in the evening extras. Jittery she had attempted to communicate with her husband
in the clinic, but every time she had heard in the receiver that he wasn’t able to
leave his post. He had arrived home late at night when she had been already
soundly asleep. He had left the house at seven which had never happened before.
“You can now prepare my bath,” she ordered the maid.
Mrs. Nina had been determined not to waste time. First of all she wanted to
know how her friends and acquaintances reacted to the articles in the morning
press and then by using her charm and intimacy to sow the seeds of antipathy, in
perticular undermining Professor Wolf’s abilities and his status of authority. It was
not a complicated task considering the facts and circumstances of the recent events.
Every one of Mrs. Nina’s interlocutors naturally have assumed that, she, being a
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wife of the vice-president of the clinic, who was not only a vice-president but also
the closest friend and the most trusted of Wolf’s associates, was privy to the main
source of data pertaining to the idiosyncrasies of Mr. Donat’s bungled operation.
For certain she had to know more than the papers printed.
And Mrs. Nina didn’t disappoint them.
She moved in wide circles and knew how to talk convincingly. The rumors,
gossips and hearsay engendered by that unfortunate tragedy grew out of proportion
in diverse forms of the most outlandish, far-fetched hypotheses, conjectures and
incriminations. The entire metropolis was so intrigued by the mystery of the above
topic that it virtually perpetuated by itself in the press for some time. The vicious
campaign actually was not aimed directly at Professor Wolf, but rather at his
elevated position in the realm of medicine and at his competence as a surgeon.
Nina had no scruples concerning the methods of her belligerence, nor would
she falter implementing the most draconian measures as long as this enabled her
attain her goal. Eventually it led to an unavoidable confrontation with her husband.
Professor Dobraniecki while examining one of his patients overheard an
absurd remark put forth by Doctor Hryniewicz, mocking Professor Wolf. For the
sake of appearance Dobraniecki had to parry the accusation, which alleged that
Professor Wolf in certain cases employed “charms” from a witchdoctor’s bag of
tricks. Dobraniecki, for a split second, suspected that Doctor Hryniewicz was
setting a provocative trap for him.
“That’s pure nonsense,” he uttered, his mouth awry. “That anyone can
believe in such bunk is beyond my comprehension.”
“Well, my sister heard it from your wife,” retorted Hryniewicz.
Dobraniecki mumbled apologies under his breath discounting it as a crude
gossip. Returning home he sternly reproached his wife:
“You don’t have an ounce of common sense. This way you’ve succeeded to
compromise and discredit both of us. For God’s sake stop spreading these silly,
ludicrous rumors no one takes seriously.”
Mrs. Nina shrugged her shoulders.
“You are wrong. Most took them at their face value.”
“Or only pretended that they believed it,” he emphasized.
“My dear, I assure you, if you talk ridiculing one long enough, the
interlocutors more often than not swallow it as a truth.”
“I’m imploring you Nina, do control your scheming. Wolf must be perfectly
informed by now who is the main instigator in sullying of his character. Already I
can detect aloofness and reservation in his demeanor toward me. If he loses his
poise and retaliates, I tell you he still can be dangerous to us!”
“In what way?”
“Well, by accusing me of instituting a derogatory crusade against him.”
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She sneered disdainfully.
“Accusing you before whom?”
“Anybody, it reality it’s irrelevant; in the University Senate, in the
Association, or in the press. You are forgetting that he flexes mighty power and
enjoys a great reputation. One setback can scarcely undermine such an authority.”
Professor Dobraniecki was indeed factual in his assertion. The accidental
death of Leon Donat didn’t abolish Professor Wolf’s prestige or the primacy in his
field, however it shook it substantially as it had been manifestly evident at the
current election of the Doctors Association.
The position held by Professor Wolf was so solid that Dobraniecki had
judged prudently to withdraw his own candidacy for the presidency, and even
himself had proposed the name of Wolf. As luck had it Wolf was elected, but if
the election had been held prior to the fatal accident, he would have been chosen
unanimously, whereas presently he got only the majority of votes with numerous
members not committed.
Professor Wolf had been manifestly absent at that session. Preoccupied with
his everyday routine, disquieted by the mounting smearing campaign against him
he simply had forgotten all about it, and upon being informed about his
appointment to the presidency penned a succinct letter to the Association, stating in
it that he could not accept the offered position being overworked, in quandaries
and physically exhausted, suggesting a younger colleague in his place. Actually he
loathed the notion of facing and dealing on daily basis with the members of the
Association who had voted against him, who had been swayed so easily by a pack
of lurid gossips and pillories promulgated in the Capital in the press and even in
the medical periodicals.
He had still another reverse to take under the consideration. The other day he
had been visited by a representative of the insurance company in which Leon
Donat’s accidental death indemnity had been secured in a colossal amount of
money. As the insurance company advanced the argument that Professor Wolf was
solely answerable for the singer’s death, he was thus compelled to remunerate the
full compensation, which in effect meant his financial ruin.
Regardless of the above, without objection he had agreed to cover the quoted
sum. Otherwise the heartrending experience would have undergone another
scrutiny by medical experts and lawyers, and thus again would have become
exposed to the daily light with ever present suspicion and distrust focusing not only
on him but also involving Lucy Kanska and Kolski and others. They all would
have to testify in court. The case of Donat’s fatal operation once again would have
been analyzed, engendering afresh doubts and credulous rumors on mere thought
of which Wolf shivered in aversion.
No, he will never acquiesce to that.
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In this way in few days he had lost almost everything of value he possessed.
The clinic, the villa, the townhouse in Pulawska Street - all had passed to the
accounts of the insurance company. The bigwigs of the insurance company
magnanimously had allowed Wolf to retain his position in the clinic and to reside
in the villa. Thus the highly contested problem had been finalized amicably,
swiftly and without publicity upon which Wolf had obstinately insisted. On the
surface seemingly nothing had changed. And the fact that Professor Wolf as a
head of the clinic was subordinate to the president of the insurance company, Mr.
Tuchwitz, had never been repeated outside the confines of Mr. Tuchwitz’s office.
Admittedly Professor Wolf wasn’t distraught much by the sudden change.
For years he had been overtly indifferent toward wealth and money. Once when he
had been married to his now deceased wife, he had toiled long hours every day
believing that splendor of luxuries, automobiles, fur coats and jewelry would
presumably bring her joy and happiness. But one memorable day she had
abandoned it all and left him, taking with her little Mariola. With their departure
his dreams and illusions had shattered and dissipated. The perpetual strife, the
merciless, cumbersome struggle for survival seemed to him as a ludicrous
misconception forced on him, a wasted effort and an erroneous fallacy.
Thereupon had come long years of strife and hardship. Perhaps he ought to
bless that trying segment of his life spent amidst ordinary but good folk where
laboring with an axe in one’s hand or burdened with sacks on one’s back had
amounted merely to earning the daily bread. For years on end he had had no
inkling what his name was or where he had come from. Wasn’t the loss of
memory a blessing in disguise for him? Shouldn’t he have been grateful to the
merciless fate for depriving him in the past of his conscience, for enduring tortures
of the mortally wounded heart which was all along an intensely loving heart, being
hurt by a woman, by the dearest of all women?
The ashes of bygone times had sprinkled the yesteryears, as they had
sprinkled his hair.
From the past in the balance only Mariola remained... or did she?
Since three years ago when she had wed Leh, he had seen her only once. He
was not bitter or resentful on that account. Well, everyone has his or her life to
live. The young birds abandon the nest to build their own nests never to look back.
They lived now in America, and although they wrote frequently their letters
represented a broad precipice, a many thousands kilometers wide gap between
diverse convictions and dissimilarities which separated them.
“They don’t need me now,” Wolf reflected chagrined, “living in opulence,
and with their wealth they won’t feel the pinch if they receive nothing in my will.”
It was the first time when he had begun to mark himself an old man. Until
now an inordinate amount of work and his untiring energy had obfuscated the fact
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that he had reached the age at which most mortals thought about death. When he
had read Dobraniecki’s deposition stressing his age he had felt profoundly injured
by its odious connotation, yet with days and weeks passing by he dwelt upon it
quite often.
Like in the days gone by he rose habitually at seven in the morning, arriving
punctually at eight at the clinic. Afternoons though he spent at home, usually
alone.
He felt somewhat irascible and fatigued with never ceasing tattles and
gossips to which he never had reckoned gentlemanly to reply. The resiliency of his
nervous system was gradually deteriorating and with it his health and selfconfidence.
Then he took up drinking, not habitually. The old efficient butler, Joseph,
one day suggested a snifter of cognac for him.
“You are cold, sir. It’ll warm you up.”
From that day on as he retired to the study on a stand by the fireplace next to
a cup of coffee had stood a carafe with cognac. One or two glasses warmed him
inside and concurrently let him forget the quirks of reality, gave him an illusion of
peace and contentment, but primarily soothed his nerves which had been in dire
need of mending.
The steady attacks on Wolf undeniably had unsettling effects on his
associates and employees. In the clinic he noticed that a large body of the
personnel gravitated toward Dobraniecki’s clique, mainly prompted by their own
insecurities, or perhaps they were sensing the new authority on the rise.
As to the relationship between Wolf and Dobraniecki on the surface it ran its
usual course. Compelled to face each other daily in the clinic they partook in
conferences and consultations, however both of them unobtrusively attempted to
limit their contacts to minimum. At the same time in earnest they avoided disputes
and conflicts of any kind. That’s why when Dobraniecki had enjoined in the tone
of utmost finality the secretary not to send his way any patients from the fifth floor
(who were treated free of charge), Wolf didn’t object and from that day had taken
care of that section himself.
In that very section he identified the man who had been delivered here by an
emergency ambulance, or to be honest the man, Cyprian Yemiol, had spotted
Wolf.
It came about this way: The professor was told that the injured man he had
operated on regained consciousness. As Wolf entered the cubicle and bent over the
prone man, he opened his eyes wide, scrutinized the professor’s countenance for a
minute or two, grinning friendly:
“How are you, caro mio?”
“I know you from somewhere, don’t I?”
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The patient smiled again, exhibiting his rotten teeth.
“We were introduced to each other at the banquet given by Princess Monte
Cuculli.”
The professor laughed heartily.
“Naturally I’ve recognized your voice and your inimitable style.”
“That was easy for you, my good fellow, since I do not habitually alter my
voice, with one exception of a slight mutation when I was still a youngster. As to
the mode of my expression I strive to refine it.”
The professor pulled a chair near the bed and sat down.
“At any rate, now it’s water under the bridge,” he said introspectively.
Yemiol shut his eyes.
“Even if my staunch beliefs that nothing in reality will surprise me in this
world, and I wouldn’t have been surprised to meet you in the other world, my
prince, I’m going to cry out: ‘What a surprise!’ By God if my memory is correct
some years ago they interfered in your peaceable existence and sent you to St.
Peter. The jolly gang of my companions tried to expedite me in that direction, too.
And we met again in a nice, cozy hospital room. Are you by chance a doctor?”
“Yes, indeed I am. I sewed you up. You have been cut up badly, several
stab wounds.”
“No, no, signore, I’m the one who’s sorry for inconveniencing you. Mille
grazie. Now as a doctor inform me kindly whether by chance or necessity you had
to cut off a limb or a member...”
“No, nothing whatsoever and you’ll recover nicely.”
“Good tidings, indeed, which will also please Mr. Drozdzyk who definitely
longs for me and cries his eyes out. Do you recall the incomparable Mr. Drozdzyk,
signore dottore?”
“Mr. Drozdzyk?” the professor frowned perplexed.
“I’m referring to the benevolent proprietor of a notorious establishment; rue
Witebska, numero quinze... The third rate restaurant from the fiscal point of view,
but the first rate regarding society, morals and manners. So Drozdzyk’s joint
means nothing to you; the meeting place of the elite of the Warsaw high society.
There I had the honor and pleasure of your acquaintance.”
The professor rubbed his eyes.
“Is that possible that it was you who did stop me years ago on the street?”
“Si, amico mio. It’s precisely what I did, afterwards we dropped at
Drozdzyk’s to deliberate certain abstract concepts, and aided by 45% of alcoholic
concoction we splendidly accomplished what we indeed set out for. As I can
vividly recall you were burdened then by an unfortunate experience and by a
heavily stuffed wallet. From that very day I have always emphasized your very
predicament in arguments whenever I’ve imparted my views on poverty, stressing
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that wealth not necessarily brings happiness with it. If your wallet had been empty
you wouldn’t have got your head bashed in and you wouldn’t have been left alone
to die in a garbage pit.”
Yemiol looked straight into Wolf’s eyes and added:
“Nein, nein, mein Herr! You are grossly mistaken. I had no play in it. I
stumbled on it the next day in the press. Well, yes, another item to ponder on the
triviality of human endeavors.”
Wolf involuntarily touched his temple where a scar was still visible.
“So it did happen, indeed, that way.”
“That’s right, chief. I couldn’t envision even in my wildest imagination that
I may see you again.”
From that day on the professor had visited Yemiol quite frequently, who was
quickly recuperating and was giddily delighted by these visitations and those of
Miss Lucy, who cared for the patients on this floor conscientiously fulfilling her
assignment. Wolf couldn’t but perceive this young lady’s unselfishness and
sacrifice, indefatigably losing self in work as if hoping to absolve with it her guilty
conscience.
He also was pleased to distinguish in her eyes sincere compassion and a
friendly disposition toward him; simultaneously though he suffered anguish as if
being afraid to be granted these favors.
Sometimes they left the clinic together, and on such occasions she walked
him home. They discussed mainly medical aspects, only once in a while they
touched on more confidential subjects. In any event, she was an orphan, came from
Sandomierz, and from her childhood had lived in Warsaw. She had been brought
up by her aunt who had died years ago. She confided in him that she had been
engaged for a short term, breaking it off subsequently as she had unmasked her
young engineer, who pretended to love her, as one of spurious values and morals.
“Well,” opined Wolf, “it seems to me that our colleague Kolski is very much
taken up with you.”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“Doctor Kolski, sir, is a very dear colleague, a very convivial and decent
young man. I admire him, indeed, and I value the merits of his character, yet these
are not the merits which could inspire anything more aside feelings of camaraderie
and friendship.”
For a minute or two they strolled in silence.
“But women unquestionably tend to esteem and fall for men of such
description. They succumb to beauty, to charm admiring emphatic personalities.”
She slightly blushed.
“Not as a rule, sir. The attributes you’ve mentioned unmistakably might
tempt simple women, women of shallow or weak characters. I feel that we... I
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mean that I seek in a man more natural traits and most of all the sincerity and
generosity of his soul, and I’d rather like to find in him a library of momentous
experiences of joys and woes, of everyday thoughts and flights of fancy, as in a
living museum. I can’t exactly express myself and perhaps the above metaphors
do not convey properly what I mean, yet deep inside of me I know that I want his
soul to be like a multifaceted jewel, encompassing a variety of virtues and qualities
enough for discovering and relishing them for a lifetime. I don’t think I’m too
unreasonable in my postulations; they seem to me romantic and sentimental
enough, so akin to a womanly nature. We have urges and desires to care for, to
cherish and value such a noble, priceless soul, the very sentiments that our minds
can’t readily comprehend, yet are willing to accept and to rejoice in them.”
The fresh snow covering the streets crunched lightly under their feet. The
light of gas lamps created a mosaic of angular, pale blue shades. The ancient trees
with their boughs and branches overloaded with thick layers of white fluff stood
there still, quiet and majestic.
“I’m afraid I’ve to disagree,” Wolf spoke up following a lengthy pause.
“One day you’ll find out how wrong you were.”
“No, never ever, sir,” she protested vehemently; he had not registered her
objection and continued:
“The youth dictates and nurtures illusions and romantic vagaries. The youth
harbors noble ideas. Sooner or later love becomes an outlet of physical wants,
surrendering itself to laws of nature. The spirit is just a spirit, an abstract idea,
nothing more than that.”
He spoke with bitterness in his voice. She replied in a conciliatory tone:
“I have no reasons to doubt it, besides you sir have too pessimistic outlook
on life.”
“But I have reasons to doubt it,” he added sullenly.
“Perhaps one day I’ll unburden myself to you as a forewarning. Well,
there’s my abode. Thank you for the pleasant company and for being so kind and
understanding.”
He kissed her hand gallantly as they parted.
Taking off his fur coat he glanced in the mirror to discover that he had
forgotten to shave in the morning.
“Joseph, will you remind me, please, each morning,” he turned to his butler,
“to shave.”
“Everything is ready on time,” the old butler blurted out with rancor.
“I know, I know, though I never remember about it.”
Then he recalled this morning’s article he had read in one of the newspapers,
still reverting to Leon Donat’s death. One of the less prominent doctors hiding
behind the initials XY had endeavored to prove that full recovery of a prolonged
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amnesia was a wishful thinking. The memory, according to that ignoramus, will
never regain its prior capacity and will be further hampered by more frequent
lapses.
That’s absurd. Yet availing themselves with tricks and innuendos of such ilk
his enemies had set out to force him to resign. If they had known that his clinic
now belonged to the insurance company unfailingly they would have hatched fresh
intrigues.
He put on a robe and sat by the fire. Joseph brought in a steaming, savoring
cup of coffee together with the evening papers. He intentionally placed them in the
way that it was impossible not to notice the headline which read:
“Professor Wolf had Remunerated Heavy Indemnity to the Family of the
Late Leon Donat.”
Several long minutes elapsed; he reached for the paper.
“We have been informed,” he read, “that the insurance company in which
the victim of the tragic demise in Professor Wolf’s clinic, the internationally famed
Polish tenor has been insured, threatened the renowned surgeon with a protracted
costly lawsuit. Presented with the fact of losing it, because the death of the
celebrated singer was attributed to the criminal negligence and lack of oversight in
his clinic, he was compelled to pay the enormous sum of two and half million
zlotys (roughly half a million dollars) in indemnity. To secure the full amount of
the pay off the insurance company annexed the professor’s clinic, his villa and
practically everything else of value he possessed. It’s hard not to feel sympathy for
the famous surgeon. On the other hand, let it be a stern warning to all doctors who
so recklessly or frivolously trifle with the lives of patients in their care.”
Putting aside the newspaper he whispered:
“Well, the oil is in the fire.”
Again they had poured the fat into the fire. Was it an unintentional slip of
the tongue, an indiscretion or an insidious remark to rekindle the gossips, to ignite
another orgy of calumnies?
“Don’t lay up the table, Joseph. I’m not hungry,” he instructed the servant,
being informed that supper was ready.
“Perhaps a cup of broth, sir?”
“No, thank you just coffee and cognac.”
That night he didn’t sleep one wink. In the morning he saw his face in the
mirror, sallow in complexion, tired and bloated, a normal aftereffect of
overindulging on coffee and alcohol. Exhausted as he was he shaved himself
meticulously and arrived at the clinic on time.
It was easy to surmise that yesterday’s poignant episode quoted in the press
had been read by every one of the clinic personnel. Doctor Zuk reporting on the
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schedule and the cases of the patients didn’t dare to ply the professor with a query
despite that his eyes betrayed high anxiety.
According to the daily roster there were six operations to be performed by
Wolf: one skull trepanation, four settings of broken limbs, and the removal of an
appendix of a fourteen year old girl who had been admitted last night. Aside from
the first one the others were simple, quite routine procedures.
After one hour of consultations the professor entered the operating ward.
Since the ominous fiasco with Donat he himself had examined each patient,
particularly focusing his attention on their heart and pulmonary state and allergic
reactions to anesthesia. Although he thus wasted precious hours he preferred not
to rely on others.
The first surgery had been carried out successfully within one hour. The
brain tumor engendered by a high fever was lacerated and removed. With the
ensuing four all went well without a hitch, with the exception of the last one which
the professor had to postpone for half an hour. He desperately needed rest. The
sleepless night and the perpetual nervous strain tired him with a debilitating effect.
As he sat reposing in the cloakroom, Doctor Dobraniecki came in. He greeted
Wolf and put in a strict unsentimental fashion:
“Doctor Rancewicz has told me that you are tired. Perhaps you do prefer
that someone else performed the appendicitis operation?”
“No, thank you. It won’t be necessary,” was Wolf’s peremptory repartee.
“I’m also free... I can...”
“No, thank you,” he retorted brusquely unable to stifle irritation. He stood
up and pressed the bell.
Through the door came the strident voice of a head-nurse: “The patient on
the table!”
Dobraniecki exited. Professor Wolf opened the glass cabinet, took a jar with
bromide out of it, poured a large dose of it into a glass of water and drank it.
When he had commenced the surgery he was calm, collected and totally
confident of each of his moves. The angular lacerations were proficiently
executed. There were but few droplets of blood on the white surface of skin and
on the light bluish entanglements of intestines. The glowing electric implement
hissed for a split second as it cut through, and a turgid appendix landed in a
container with formaldehyde. The treatment was nearing its conclusion. In the
forty-fifth minute Professor Wolf had set fasteners.
“Twelve, thirteen, fourteen and fifteen,” Doctor Zuk counted surgical
instruments.
As the young girl was taken off the table, Doctor Zuk dispassionately stated:
“One piece is missing.”
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After brief consternation Professor Wolf who had already removed the mask
commanded in a hoarse voice: “Put her back on the table!”
The abdominal cavity had to be opened for the second time to retrieve from
coils of intestines a tiny shining piece of metal. The heat in the surgical ward and
exhaustion taxed Wolf’s faculties to the point beyond endurance. With the utmost
exertion of his will he strove not to lose consciousness and to continue. He was on
the verge of collapsing. Fortuitously he was able to carry through to the end.
The ill-fated girl was already coming out of anesthesia as she was wheeled
out of the surgery. Reeling, his legs wobbling, Professor Wolf followed her into
the cool corridor. He took off the mask and rested there, leaning on the wall.
Gradually he was regaining his faculties and strength. He also sustained an
aggravating ringing noise in his ears brought about by the overdose of bromide.
Slowly he directed himself to the cloakroom. With nurse’s aid he took off the
surgeon’s outfit, reached for his fur coat and hat and without going to his office
quit the clinic.
Meanwhile the entire clinic was abuzz as a beehive. Although instances of
leaving surgical instruments inside of an operating cavity took place quite often,
necessitating the additional pain of removing it, Professor Wolf was famous for his
steely nerves and always focused perception, so that nothing of a similar nature
had ever occurred to him.
Those assisting him in the operation have unfailingly witnessed his utter
exhaustion; as a matter-of-fact Doctor Zuk had expected the professor to faint at
any moment and was readying himself to carry on with the operation in such
contingency.
Presently nearly the entire doctor’s body was congregated in Professor
Dobraniecki’s office, who addressed them:
“Certainly we admire and highly esteem him and unreservedly applaud his
services rendered and sympathize with him, notwithstanding one must be blind not
to see that the man is old, worn-out, overworked and in dire need of rest, although
he’ll never acknowledge these facts himself. In all probability similar incidents
will repeat themselves, I’m afraid in shorter intervals. I’m really at a loss as to
what we should do next.”
In the din of general support Doctor Kanska decried in a dissenting fashion:
“There’s nothing else for me to do but to open the windows to air out the
poisoning atmosphere of deception and intrigues, to air this room of malicious
gossips, innuendos and vile calumnies. I doubt whether any one of us thus
burdened by slanderous accusations, defamed and assailed by cunning and vicious
conspirators could keep his head cool! What an infamy! Shame on all of them!
They are all grossly mistaken in their calculations that they will reap the gains by
ruining Professor Wolf. They will never prevail! Such a man will never succumb
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to ignoble pressures of a despicable clique of scheming hyenas. I’m certain that
those honest and his true friends will be forever at his side.”
Professor Dobraniecki’s countenance visibly paled.
“But we are all on his side,” he averred emphatically.
“All? Does that also include you, professor?” she threw the question directly
into his face.
Dobraniecki failed miserably to cover up his exasperation.
“Dear lady. When you were still parading in your first grade school
uniform, I published the biography of Professor Wolf. You are too young and too
inexperienced to broach the prerogatives of authority. I gather I need not to spell
out this to you more clearly.”
Doctor Lucy recoiled in perplexing consternation. Indeed, there was
between her and Professor Dobraniecki as wide gap of authority as between an
infantryman and a general. In the fury of resentment, overwhelmed by indignation
she had forgotten all about it.
Availing herself of the break, as Professor Dobraniecki appending his
scornful words had turned to Professor Biernacki, Lucy slipped out. She spotted
Doctor Kolski on the third floor, attending the patients. She looked so distressed
that she startled him.
“What on earth has transpired?”
“They are all Judases, conspiring again. I want to talk to you, doctor.”
He consulted his watch. “I’ll be free shortly. Please wait for me in my
office.”
His eyes betrayed concern and commiseration.
In his office he found her sitting at the desk, crying.
“People are mean and vindictive, I tell you.”
He delicately patted her hand and offered with certitude in his voice:
“They have always been that way. Struggle for existence is not a game or a
childish play but a constant battling with teeth and nails, not discounting vicious,
derogatory calumnies. Unfortunately I think it’ll always be that way, Miss Lucy,
and neither you nor I can help it.”
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CHAPTER V
Returning late from the Christmas Eve dinner she had spent with her
acquaintances Lucy hadn’t expected to find a large bouquet of roses in her
apartment. She was as displeased as she was surprised despite that she was very
fond of flowers. It had to be Kolski she thought, who had sent it without a card.
“A pointless, wasted effort,” she opined bitterly.
She considered an anonymous bouquet as a faux pas of academic frivolity
and a touch of provincial mentality. Apart from that, hadn’t she hinted to him on
numerous occasions not to expect anything more from her aside empathy and
friendship? She did like him and respected the probity of his character, but he was
just a colleague to her.
Countless times, as they were idly bantering between surgeries, when Kolski
attempted to refer to their intimacy, she every time had subtly as an artful diplomat
sidled them, not wanting to hurt him. He was incapable to come to turns with the
motives behind her inflexible determination, or perhaps he wasn’t able or didn’t
want to admit to himself he couldn’t win her heart, and that’s why he ceaselessly
reverted to the above theme.
In general she couldn’t find any faults with him. Perhaps only that he was
thoroughly absorbed in his career and work, studied diligently, highly appreciated
the value of money, and could never understand her restive attitude. Reverting to
their last confabulation they almost had had a falling out.
“I don’t understand you at all, Lucy,” he mildly chastised her. “You are but
wasting your life on a practice which brings you neither acclaim nor money, nor
much of experience as an internist.”
“You are an egoist,” she put in with indifference.
He was veritably ticked off.
“I’m not an egoist and I’m going to add before one wants to dispense one
must possess. When I become a doctor, a doctor in the full meaning of the word,
when I have my own practice adequately supporting myself and my family, I
assure you dear Lucy, I’ll have then time and money for orphans and the poor.
Professor Wolf, whom you put on a pedestal, at the beginning of his career did not
acquire his philanthropic mania, as you suppose, but worked for his own gains, and
that’s the fact.”
Lucy shrugged her shoulders.
“This is not only a case of philanthropy. You have misconstrued my
motivation. I do care for the needy for various...”
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“I concede the point, let’s say it places demands on your social
requirements...”
“No, no you are wrong again, John. One can’t talk of incumbency when
one’s satisfaction and pleasure stem from serving the public at large. I’m doing it
for myself. It makes me happy. It inspires me when I can be of assistance and that
I can aid those in dire need of a doctor, those who can’t afford one, and what I
mean, a good doctor.”
“Granted but with one clause in it. First you’d better become a good doctor,
a thoroughly accomplished doctor, allotting your time to self-improvements, to
studying and practicing in the hospitals, and not to squander it in service you
scarcely learn anything of real value.”
She looked straight into his eyes.
“Tell me frankly, John. Won’t be the doctors like myself always necessary
to those of modest means?”
He grew exasperated.
“Certainly they will, but what compels you to pay for it with your training
and future prospects?”
“Oh, here you go again, my training and my future prospects; the very points
of an egoist for which I don’t care much. Sharing my skills for the benefit of the
needy is most edifying and gratifying for me. You sound to me ridiculously
fanatical in your pronouncement. You take for granted that everyone shares alike
your beliefs and inclinations.”
“Not all of them, just those more prudent.”
She was ready to retort that his interpretations of prudent concepts were
confined to the field of finance and career, though wisely she had restrained
herself.
At any rate, the above interlocution had markedly cooled their relationship
and the delivered flowers, she thought, had been sent in lieu of an apology; such
notion discomfited her on several points. First and most of all, knowing Kolski’s
frugal nature, particularly on account of his modest salary, he could scarcely afford
to act so extravagantly, and if he had done this, obviously following long
deliberations, he might have suffered the pangs of lingering afterthoughts.
Secondly she detested intensely even more the vague suggestion of
accepting a gift for which she sincerely couldn’t reciprocate. Thirdly she
obviously comprehended how painful it was for Kolski to send the bouquet
anonymously. Being of modest mien, never seeking the limelight, he had never
shied away from publicity in affairs in which he had been consummately involved.
These traits of Kolski’s character didn’t prejudice Lucy, rather mollified her
antagonistic attitude, nevertheless she was set upon scolding him for sending her
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flowers and to emphasize that she didn’t wish to be honored with similar tokens of
remembrance.
She found a proper moment after the holidays. She thought that the right
time had come. Late in the evening as she was bent over a microscope in a
laboratory, examining blood samples, she heard Kolski entering. To hide the
indignant expression on her face she offered casually without turning:
“I’m glad that it’s you, Doctor Kolski. I wanted to have a word with you.
Why are you so deviously persistent? You know very well that I can’t thank you
for your present, which by the way didn’t please me in the first place.”
Kolski paled and went genuinely puzzled.
“I really don’t know what are you harping at, Miss Lucy?”
“Please, do not pretend. I’m referring to the flowers. You put yourself to
unnecessary inconvenience and expenses...”
“I have no inkling, whatsoever, about any flowers,” he disclosed
unwavering.
It flitted through her head that he suffered in his mind that he had made an
egregious mistake and inordinately regretted it.
“I could never believe, even for a short moment, you being a coward,” she
uttered taken aback.
Kolski was silent for a moment.
“Miss Lucy,” he recommenced, “there has to be some gross mistake or a
mix-up. Perhaps somebody has played a prank on you or me, implicating my
name in it. I’m not a coward. Besides, why should I conceal the fact that I have
sent you flowers, which I doubtlessly would have sent to you if I had known,” he
added slightly hesitating, “that you would have accepted them as the earmark of
our friendship.”
Lucy turned her head and gazed at him searchingly. There was no doubt
about it. He was telling the truth.
“I see; the roses were not from you. They were delivered without a card...
and I’ve jumped to the erroneous deduction. I apologize, really I do.”
It was an embarrassing moment for both of them. Lucy was afraid that he
had surmised that she attempted to foist on him the fallacy of his exaggerating
adoration, whereas Kolski despaired in earnest that it was inexcusable for him not
to come up with a token of a Christmas present for her. She might have taken him
for an uncouth miser, and possibly had invented the whole fiasco with roses just to
tax his incivility.
He stood there frozen in daze, starring at the white clad figure bent over a
microscope, at the light blond hair, at the more than usually tinged cheeks and at
the shapely, strong, perhaps a bit too muscular hands substituting blood samples.
“I’m so sorry,” she repeated again, contrite.
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“Forget it, there’s no need to be sorry,” he stammered clumsily.
“But I’m sorry. I’ve accused you of indiscretion,” she said it sententiously.
“There was no harm in it,” he protested. “In fact I deserve a reprimand for
neglecting the holiday tradition.”
She moved her head from side to side.
“I see no reasons, no reasons at all.”
He wavered.
“Perhaps there was one,” he exculpated self under the guise of one feeling
slightly guilty, “and it was the dereliction of duty and etiquette.”
Guessing the meaning of his leading argument she interrupted him with:
“Talking about duties, aren’t you expected at your floor? It’s already quarter
to twelve.”
Kolski didn’t relent.
“Allow me to finish, Miss Lucy. When I want to signify how I feel about
you, what are my hopes and expectations, you invariably…”
Not lifting her head of the microscope she posthaste cut in:
“It’s simply, I tell you, superfluous, unnecessary and frankly quite
pointless.”
“Yet you must be fully cognizant that I’m madly in love with you!” he
verbalized petulantly.
“I believe you think you are,” she frenziedly pulled out a glass plate out of
the microphone, jotted the result in a form and stood up.
He barred the passage.
“Miss Lucy, I won’t let you scot-free without listening to me. Why do you
hate me so?”
“I don’t hate you.”
“Then why do you treat me with disdain and indifference, and how should I
phrase it, why do you scornfully reject my affections?”
She shook her head. “I do not scornfully reject your affections. I honestly
cannot accept them without requiting.”
“Do I beg for anything in exchange, anything at all? I only wish you let me
tell you of my love for you, and my only hopes are that one day I will win your
heart and you’ll reward me, well, if not with affection at least with a bit of
kindness and sympathy, perhaps with some semblance of love.”
She regarded him seriously.
“Doctor Kolski, I want you to listen well to all what I’m going to tell you. I
esteem you very much. I’m happy for you and I sympathize with you, but believe
me that it’s not quite enough in comparison, it’s not on par to sentiments that I
might have for a man I wished to be united. I’m not a teenager. I’m 26 years old.
Mine is a mature and sober outlook on my aspirations and life in general. You are
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one of the nicest and the kindest of my colleagues, and as you hopefully might
have perceived, I didn’t wish to have this conversation not wanting to jeopardize
our friendship which I value. Now when you have forced my hand, I assure you
that I don’t love you and that I will never fall in love with you.”
Kolski stood there pale, dumbstruck. A pathetic, forlorn simper adorned his
face. Lucy’s heart filled with pity and compassion.
“I’m indeed sorry, John,” she took him under his arm. “Still you do agree
with me that it’s much better for both of us to clear up the atmosphere, so that you
won’t be deceived by erroneous corollaries and illusions, by the sentiments I can’t
and will never be able to grant you.”
“Not even a shade of illusion?” he probed doubtfully.
“Not even a shade and please do not blame me for this.”
She gathered the samples and forms and headed for the door. When she had
reached the door, he shouted:
“Miss Lucy, the ultimate question!”
She wheeled around.
“Do you... do you love another?”
“Is that really important to you?” she asked.
“Very important,” he enunciated with emphasis.
“Yes, I do.”
“One more question. Are you in love with Wolf?”
She didn’t answer. Kolski came closer to her.
“It’s a sheer madness. He is an old, worn-out hulk of a man. It’s
preposterous to even think about it. I highly respect the man, as you know that
well, beside I wouldn’t have mentioned one word to you if I hadn’t been stricken
by the absurdity of such a union, he and you together. He has reached about the
end of his life’s journey, whereas yourself you’ve just embarked on it. He has
lived and experienced feelings you have vague ideas about. I admire him and I’m
very grateful to him, but I love you and it’s my moral obligation to point out to you
the paradox of your predicament. Miss Lucy, just think about it, I beg you. What
rewards can you expect for yourself?”
A wintry smile crossed Lucy’s lips.
“Expect! Expect! You’ll never understand me. I’ll be more than happy if he
just accepts all that I can willingly grant him.”
She had her eyes piercingly fixed at him; he had the feeling that she was
unaware of his presence there, seeing through him. The corners of her mouth
twisted into a wry scowl.
She stood there in a rigid, unflinching stance for a while, slowly turned and
walked out. Kolski didn’t stir. Minutes ago he had put up a fight employing in it
all his wits and energy. Presently he was vanquished by despair and apathy. He
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was taxed with the circumstances so incomprehensible to him that he couldn’t
rationally argue in accordance to his inherent beliefs and convictions he was
accustomed to, relying on law and logic. Abruptly it dawned on him that
apparently he had completely misjudged Lucy, and how little he knew about a
human’s psyche, particularly a woman’s psyche.
Being thirty odd years old his experience in these matters was quite
inadequate. Born into a family of modest means, forced to provide for himself
since his early years, he had developed the natural instinct of enduring and
outlasting setbacks in the game of the survival of the fittest. And because he had
never prescribed to half-hearted efforts he sank deep roots into reality with
diligence and hard and decent work. His credo was: hard, more, better and always
forward.
His life was shaped accordingly with only a modicum of diversions. He
rarely indulged himself in frivolities, and acquaintances with women he counted
merely as a pastime, until he had encountered Lucy.
On his floor everything seemed in perfect order, an unappealing prospect of
an uneventful night. He could retire to his office to catch a few winks, though he
couldn’t rest his mind. Gradually he sorted out his supposisions and in closing
speculated:
“If Lucy was so illogically adamant, he was prepared to do everything
humanly possible to impede her plans, so that she couldn’t commit a mistake
weighing heavily on her future.”
Naturally he couldn’t win with further arguments and persuasions. He had
no such illusions. If it was possible somehow effectively separate her from Wolf, it
might have worked, but by what means? He was struggling at length to come up
with the favorable solution. If he were a professor of equal standing with Wolf or
his close friend he could have an open, sincere colloquy with him, and have at least
a chance to put forth his plans. Kolski had no doubt that an intelligent and
sensitive man of Wolf’s stature might have been swayed to his own thinking.
Unfortunately the object of the colloquy was of too personal nature to be tackled
straight on. In addition, Kolski was afraid that Lucy upon learning about his
belated intervention might outright sever their affiliation.
No, that won’t do.
Yet there seemed to be an opening to pry into. Everyone in the clinic
surmised that in the not so distant future, perhaps as soon as half a year, Professor
Wolf under the pressure of the public opinion and the internal intrigues will be
compelled to resign. Kolski had never ever relished such eventuality. At this
juncture he would applaud and even urge Wolf to do so, all on account of Lucy.
Furthermore, he was quite certain that despite of overt animosity between her and
Professor Dobraniecki, he could convince Dobraniecki to keep her employed in the
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clinic. He was certain that Dobraniecki respected him and his popularity among
the staff, and that at the inauguration of a new administration Dobraniecki
wouldn’t dare to implement radical alterations, thus avoiding unnecessary frictions
and perhaps even endearing self with the clinic personnel. Later the things will run
their normal course. In addition, Lucy as a doctor was a great asset to the clinic
owing to her competence, diligence and intuition. In time even Dobraniecki will
reconcile with her.
Thus Kolski rationalized that for his own benefit and that of Lucy’s he ought
to abstain from active defense of Wolf’s position. On the contrary he must now
cooperate with the opposite camp, which was bent intently on precipitous Wolf’s
dismissal. With a heavy heart Kolski had elected to switch the sides; he couldn’t
help himself.
Meanwhile Professor Wolf busied himself emptying out drawers, cabinets
and shelves of his private possessions, namely note pads, books, synopses of
lectures, etc. He sorted out the stuff that he wanted and instructed it to be packed
and tied up with a string. As he was leaving the office it was already dark outside.
Crossing the lobby he espied Lucy by the stairs. Apparently she had been
awaiting him.
“Good evening, Miss Lucy,” he greeted her pleasantly surprised. “I thought
today was your day off. Why didn’t you come up to say hello to me?”
“I wanted to. I went up to your office at least half a dozen times, but every
time the red lamp over the door was ablaze.”
“I’m sorry, I was extremely busy.”
“Your vacations have ended today?”
“Yes, today,” Wolf said nodding.
“You lied to me professor! You have spent your holiday in Warsaw.”
He laughed merrily at her.
“How did you learn about it?”
“I have two very proofs of your being in Warsaw.”
“Two?”
“Yes. Firstly I phoned you at your villa.”
“Strange. Joseph has never confided one word to me about your ringing.”
“It was not Joseph who answered the phone. It was someone weird, a
drunkard. I swear that he was and that he was also mentally unstable.”
“Mentally unstable?”
“He was babbling incomprehensibly, being totally inebriated.”
The professor laughed again and waived his hand.
“You were bantering with the incomparable Yemiol, and you know him as
well. He was one of our patients, a very nice chap.”
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“A very nice chap, you can’t be serious,” Lucy was taken aback. “He
sounded in the manner of an escaped lunatic from a psychiatric ward.”
“Not a lunatic, a poor soul of a frustrated ex-intelligent. It’s virtually
impossible to pull out of him anything of his past. He is a hobo; I don’t even know
his family name. I bumped into him years ago. Then his name was Obiedzinski or
Obiadowski if my memory is not failing me. Temporarily he has adopted as his
alias CyprianYemiol; next year he’ll craftily modify it again. Nonetheless he has
an interesting personality.”
“And he is a notorious drunkard,” added Lucy. “I would burn from shame if
I had to repeat what he was blathering. Were you, professor, indeed drinking with
him?”
“Oh, yes. I was, perhaps a bit too much,” Wolf confirmed with a grin.
“Now are you going out tonight? I see you are all dressed up.”
“Yes, I was waiting for you, sir. The orderly informed me that you’d be
leaving about this time.”
“Splendid, let’s go outside.”
It was a beautiful, full moon evening with invigorating crisp air to breathe.
They crossed the street. The professor turned to behold the imposing edifice of his
clinic. Almost all windows on all floors were brightly illuminated. The majestic
form of the structure seemed to exude comfort, confidence and dignity.
The professor stood there motionless as in a trance. Minutes flew by.
Astonished by his unexpected behavior, Lucy looked up at him and descried two
solitary tears rolling down his cheeks.
“Professor Wolf,” she whispered, “are you all right, sir?”
He turned toward her.
“I became sentimental for a minute. I’ve left here a piece of my heart.”
“You have left?”
“Yes, Miss Lucy, I’m leaving the clinic, I’m abandoning this place forever.
That was my farewell and good-bye.”
“It can’t be true, professor!”
“It’s a veritable truth, my dear lady; today was my final day in the clinic.
I’ve resigned. I’ve relegated the directorship to Professor Dobraniecki. I’m
getting old, Miss Lucy.”
Lucy, her eyes welled with tears, was lost for words. She was shaking as in
high fever. The professor gently took her under her arm and resumed in a
soothing, paternal kind of voice.
“Let’s go, and please do not get upset. There’s no need. It’s all quite
natural, isn’t it? The young fill the place of the older. It has been that way since
the very beginning of the world.”
“It’s horrible... horrible...” she repeated, faltering.
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“On the contrary, Miss Lucy, hasn’t everyone advised me or hinted that I
need respite badly, so I’ve taken their suggestion. Now let’s talk about you. How
did you spend your Christmas holidays?”
She shook her head.
“Oh, professor, I can hardly think. It fell on me like a lightning from the
blue skies.”
He put in sardonically.
“Not from the blue skies, rather covered with dark clouds hanging over my
head, from which not only bolts of lightning strike but also whistles and calumnies;
the very peculiar clouds, considering that its bolts of lightning, whistles and
calumnies cast down have hit its target. Now, will you enlighten me about your
holidays?”
“I don’t understand you, sir? At any rate, these holidays brought not much
joy to me.”
“Why not, Miss Lucy? You are young, healthy and talented with bright
future ahead of you. What impediments could you have possibly encountered?”
In lieu of a response she significantly pressed his elbow closer to her.
They were silent and for a while strolled lost in reveries.
“There was though one blissful inference which made me giddily happy. It
was when I guessed that the pink roses were sent by you.”
The professor grunted seemingly embarrassed.
“I’m certain that they were from you,” she went on, “and it was very unkind
of you not to write a word to me and not to inform me that you have opted to
repose in Warsaw for the duration. At any rate, I didn’t deserve the bouquet. Still
I’m grateful to you for remembering me.”
“I, a selfish old man, have never forgotten about you on that Christmas Eve
day and even have had a brain storm to invite you to the Christmas Eve dinner.”
Lucy arrested her steps, fixing her eyes on him. Her countenance emanated
warmth and affection. Her heartbeat was racing. To cover up his embarrassment
he recommenced:
“I was sitting home all alone as a badger in its hole, and I wasn’t surprised at
all that the most preposterous idea has popped into my head, particularly at
Christmas time. Well, let’s proceed for we are blocking the sidewalk. Christmas
Eve, a Christmas tree, the family, reminiscing... just recollecting about it can
unbalance one’s spirit.”
“And why didn’t you invite me?” she challenged him reproachfully.
“I checked myself in time, realizing you’d prefer to be with a nice, jolly
crowd closer to your age.”
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“You are not serious, you can’t be,” she interrupted him halfheartedly. “You
know perfectly well that I desire to spend with you not only one holiday evening
but all holiday evenings to my dying day.”
Her voice faltered as she upbraided him.
“Please, stop once and for all with such nonsense!”
“To my dying day!” she ejaculated vehemently.
He chuckled involuntarily.
“In my case you won’t have to risk much. There are not many of these days
left in my life. Well, let’s not talk of depressing things anymore. It sounds so
ludicrous one might laugh himself to tears hearing it. I’ve a daughter of your age.
I could have been your father.”
“That has no bearing in our dispute,” she protested agitated.
“I contend that it has, you might be surprised how much.”
“I’m going to reiterate that I love you, that I admire you and I cannot simply
imagine living without you.”
Wolf abruptly halted as on cue.
“Miss Lucy,” he spoke up heatedly, staring into her burning face, “you are
still a very naive, inexperienced young woman. Believe me, your feelings with its
virtues and innocence are affected by confusion and misunderstanding. You do
like me, you do respect me, you are friendly disposed toward me and perhaps you
found a modicum of compassion for me induced by my late misfortunes, yet that’s
not love. It will pass in a month, in a year in its natural way, and simultaneously
you’ll perceive how once, which is present, you put yourself so carelessly near a
precipice. Luckily for you at the border of that abyss stands a sturdy barrier, that is
to say my experience and my sober outlook on life. Dear child, one day you’ll feel
grateful to me when you recall these very words.”
Lucy interpolated in a melancholy fashion:
“Professor Wolf, I’m afraid I’ve expected that kind of homily from you. It’s
obvious that I didn’t win your heart as I hoped, and I dreaded the moment of your
flat rejection. On another hand, what can a woman hope for when her love is not
equally requited?”
“No, no, you are wrong in your assumptions. The sentiments you profess for
me, your congeniality and your candor are very dear to me. Man who seldom has
been granted the warm, sincere affections knows how to appreciate them, indeed.
Yet it does not predicate that he will replicate with analogous sentiments. Life,
long years of its journey can transform a man. His heart becomes inured. His soul
being deprived of its nourishing spirit becomes bitter and ossified, withering into
parched leather. You must comprehend and accept these things, dear Miss Lucy.”
“I can’t believe one word of it,” she shook her head. “I have been on
friendly terms with you for three years. I have been in contact with you practically
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every day, and each day I have witnessed commiseration and sensitivity of your
heart and magnanimity of your soul. Your heart is as young, fresh and innocent as
of a child. You do care for your fellow men, you do love them implicitly.”
Again they ambled in silence, passed by a solitary passerby.
“Have you ever been truly in love, Professor Wolf?” Lucy queried him,
slightly abashed.
Wolf had lifted his head as if focusing on a twinkling star in the firmament
before responding.
“Yes, I was once, her name was Beata.”
For a moment it seemed he wasn’t heedful of Lucy’s presence and narrated
as if to himself.
“She was young and strikingly beautiful; alas she never truly loved me. She
was my wife. It took place many years ago. She was my spouse, not a spouse, my
queen, my treasure, my love. Today I still am baffled was she my only reason, my
only purpose for my existence? Each thought, each deed focused on her. Oh yes, I
loved her, and I know what it means to be in love. I remember well all those years
living together and yet it was beyond me to reach her heart. I must have been a
clumsy oaf. I showered her with caresses, compliments and would fall over myself
to fulfill all her fancies and whims. But she didn’t care a fig about petty whims,
she only hankered for love, a wholesome love, and I have never become her
veritable object of love. Each and every day I saw in her eyes awe and deference
which separated her inner-self, her world from mine. She was an outstanding wife,
a paragon of a wife, and often I believed that I reached her heart, that we were
becoming one soul, united. Though these dreams burst the way soap bubbles
burst, hurling me back to disillusionment, helplessness and incomprehension. She
was trapped in a marriage like a small child in an elephant cage - although the
child seems confident being steadily assured, it’s afraid of its own words and
moves it makes, not certain of the animal’s reaction.”
He lapsed into silence.
“She’s dead, isn’t she?”
The professor nodded absentmindedly.
Meanwhile the March heat arrived and with it early spring. Women paraded
around in light suits and men wore jackets. Trees sprouted first buds, whereas
shrubbery was already getting green.
Lucy, startled, noticed how Professor Wolf, despite of lovely weather, with
every passing day grew more dejected, melancholy and almost lethargic. She
attempted to divert him, to draw him out, to take him outside for a stroll. At first
he had flatly refused even to hear about it, but eventually relented stipulating that
they’d take their leisure breaks in the evenings, avoiding places where they
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chanced running into any of his acquaintances. Once during their evening walk he
had volunteered meditatively:
“The country site is particularly beautiful now in spring.”
“I imagine so though I’ve only vague recollections from my childhood.”
“You’ve missed plenty. In spring time fields and meadows permeate the air
with delicate scent, and there’s a plethora of birds, busy, confused, chirping, flying
to and fro, hoarding twigs and straw blades, wisps of moss, whereas skylarks sing
high in the sky, and one sees bovines led to a pasture, and the sky is pristine blue.
I spent a number of lovely springs in such a country, far-off and away, in the east.
I don’t believe you have ever been in the east, have you?”
“No, I’ve never been in the east.”
“There’s one peaceful, beautiful, rustic area with rolling hills and lakes,
covered with lush forests and with juniper and hazel wood. Cottages with thatched
roofs, not all, the richer ones covered with shingles or tiles, though mainly
inhabited by simple, modest and down-to-earth decent villagers. I was reminded
about them when the other day I confabulated with Yemiol who stated that all
humans were in their nature base, spiteful and rapacious. He meant naturally the
city folk. He of course didn’t know those faraway parts and those honest natives.
He was perhaps not at fault comparing a city to an insatiable monster, which in its
incessant hassle and bustle inadvertently separates men from nature by means of
asphalt, brick and concrete. So then from where can they draw inspiration and
feelings? And feelings are but nourishment one obtains from mother earth. In the
city the sentiments wither and die, turn into dust, only the brain remains feverishly
active in struggle and competition of survival of the fittest; the brain which is
unable to reason is preoccupied with schemes, machinations and planning
intrigues. Its motto: faster, more and how to outsmart your fellow man. There’s
no time or desire to reminisce, to reflect. We become blind and indifferent to one
another. Please, look at those tall buildings obscuring the vista. We are
surrounded by them on all sides. We cannot see the horizon, just a small hole and
a tunnel by which we get in and out of the bowels of that avaricious monster,
availing ourselves with an assortment of roads, bridges and railroad tracks.”
Taking a few steps to and fro he resumed all aglow:
“There is in that eastern province a small town named Radoliszki: A couple
of cobbled streets, a church, a tiny Russian Orthodox wooden church and one or
two thousand souls. Through the middle of it cuts a wide tract bordered with
ancient birch trees which are coarse and gnarly, their bark thick and broken of age.
The tract was supposed to be cobbled; however in spring and autumn it is speckled
with puddles, whereas in summer parched and dusty. Just beyond the town the
tract turns north, and not far-off one can behold a mill belonging to old Prokop
Sapiela. The mill is fed by three ponds, for it’s a water mill. One of these ponds is
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large and deep overgrown with wicker and willow. The other smaller is in the
shape of a kidney, its banks low and with sandy bottom. There women wash linen
beating it with wooden pallets; they bathe themselves on the other side in the shade
of huge poplars, following Saint John’s Day as their customs dictate. Now the
lowest of the ponds makes the form of a circle, as if one used a caliper digging it
up. There they water horses and cattle.”
“The cascade of thundering churning water falls on the mill wheel, which in
turn revolves the grinding stones. Ducks and geese are naturally drawn to these
three ponds; the wild ones too, at times even a solitary swan. Common people live
there, though good people. Yes, I’ve missed them terribly. It has been already
three years, but I’m certain that they have not forgotten me. There I was
appreciated, never a hindrance or reckoned superfluous...”
He lost himself in remembrance again.
“You sound, sir, homesick to me.”
“What is that you’ve said?” he was roused from a trance.
“That you feel nostalgic for those far-off people.”
“Certainly I am. I wish I could see them again. Lots must have transpired
by now there. Well, Nataly by now grown up. I wonder whether Olga and Zonia,
good souls; got married?”
He turned to face Lucy.
“Zonia forcibly wanted to wed me. What a joyous surprise it would have
been to visit them if only for a week or two.”
Lucy believed that indeed a journey to Radoliszki, about which he had so
tenderly reminisced, might indeed be exceedingly beneficial to him, relaxing his
nerves, plus diverting his mind from the past trials and tribulations. He would
reappear rested and rejuvenated with energy to spare.
“And what prevents you, sir, from visiting your friends?” she proffered.
“Visiting them?” the professor interjected incredulously.
“That what I’ve meant, you narrate so warmly about them, in superlatives,
yearning to see them. Don’t you think a jaunt to Radoliszki will also be a
delightful distraction to you? You’ve not taken any vacations in years.”
Wolf attentively scrutinized her countenance.
“Aha!” he ejaculated as though he had been let down. “You also wish to get
rid of me, at least for a short time.”
“Exactly that’s what I want, for I’m demonstratively uninterested in your
affairs. Furthermore, I urge you to take a trip, being mindful that there in
Radoliszki you’ll fall into the clutches of temptress Sonia, or what’s her name,
Zonia.”
They both laughed heartily. The professor didn’t remember when the last
time he had been in so excellent mood, whereas Lucy in an instant surmised that
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his spirit had been aroused by the very recollection of Radoliszki. She was
determined to strike the iron when it was hot.
“Professor Wolf, I see no justifiable reasons why you should deny yourself a
bit of leisure time.”
“I concur, Miss Lucy, it’s a tempting proposal, and they all will also be
enormously glad to see me.”
“And you will have a barrel of fun looking up your old acquaintances of
whom you speak so fondly, breathe fresh air and relax. As a matter-of-fact there’s
nothing pressing detaining you in Warsaw and the weather is lovely.”
One day, when Lucy arrived as usual in the early afternoon, his study was
utterly disarrayed. All cabinets and drawers were open; books piled on a sofa,
whereas on a windowsill there were stacked up surgical instruments.
“What’s going on here?” she cried out.
Wolf sprang to his feet. His face betrayed glee and excitement. He had
even forgotten to greet her properly.
“Miss Lucy,” he addressed her in an official tone. “I’ve got it, the solution,
the only solution. Now I know precisely what to do with myself, how to be useful
and productive. I’m vacating Warsaw forever. Yes Miss Lucy, forever. I have
been half-mad and blind not to resolve my apprehension earlier. Here they’ve
dubbed me useless, a nuisance, there they need me and they will receive me with
open arms. There I’ll demonstrate to the world that I’m not a worthless piece of
old junk, that I can still squeeze out of me a few good years for the benefit of good
souls, not for the ungrateful denizens of Warsaw. Anyhow, I was quite content and
happy there in Radoliszki. Here I feel how the city constrains, contaminates and
bewilders. In unremitting rush of traffic, in noise and haste man becomes lost,
neglects his ideas, loses his passions, etc. I was sucked into that whirlpool and like
a possessed animal I was running in circles not being able to realize that I was a
stranger here, that I didn’t belong here, that my place was with those of my own
ilk. There I’ll feel reborn again.”
Animated he paced the room, expounding:
“I’ve arranged already the whole game plan. I’m selling my furniture, books
and other odds and ends. With these proceeds it’ll be feasible to set up a small
infirmary in Prokop’s mill, including a dispensary and things of that sort. You
can’t imagine how great I feel, I’m giddily ecstatic. There they have only one
doctor who barely survives in his practice and can’t afford to treat poor peasants
for free. Besides, he’s not a surgeon. They all will recall the good old times of my
witchdoctoring, only at present the situation will be somewhat different. I’ll have
in my disposition the most modern surgical instruments, medicaments and
disinfectants. Ho, ho, there will be abundance of patients to take care of. Even
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now I can clearly see in retrospection - the game warden’s daughter who has a
large liver growth on the inner side. Then I was powerless in helping her without
the required surgical implements, but now that’s a different story. Three years
have passed, perhaps she’s still alive?”
Lucy stood there thunderstruck. Her horror filled eyes were riveted on him.
Wolf continued with his narrative, but she didn’t register one word of it being
thoroughly petrified by the appalling notion that he was leaving, that she would
never see him again. That she won’t be near to assist him and to take care of him.
She was also bitterly disappointed that he had resolved to quit Warsaw indifferent
to the feelings she had for him and to her anguish. He hadn’t given one thought
about her. Even at this distressing juncture he was seemingly incognizant of her
being there. With mincing steps, he trotted about the room, sputtering excitedly:
“It was an unforgiving mistake to forsake Radoliszki in the first place. Why
did I when I was so happy there? There I’d find my place, I’d recover from the
city malaise, and I’d be respected and loved. That’s the sacred truth. I’ll be happy
or as near to happiness as one can get, content and trusted and needed.”
He carried on at length, though not even once he paid his attention to Lucy.
Well, Lucy was not one of those women who capitulated readily in a seemingly
lost cause. Somewhere buried in her subconscious a bold decision sprang forth
induced by a resolute notion. She exclaimed:
“I’m going with you, professor!”
At first he didn’t comprehend her statement.
“You can’t be serious!”
She repeated with emphasis.
“I’m going with you, sir.”
“Splendid,” he uttered enthusiastically. “Although I’d rather prefer you visit
me when I’m already well appointed there and domesticated. Ha! Ha! I’ll show
you everything there, nature’s beauty and tranquility.”
“No, no, professor,” she interrupted him. “What I meant I’m leaving
together with you.”
He sized her up incredulously.
“Are you for real?”
“Yes sir, I’m serious. I’m going with you.”
“That’s a silly idea, nonsense!”
“Why do you deem it as nonsense?”
“I can’t see you wasting yourself in some far-off province. There’s no point
to discuss it any further.”
“I’m going all the same,” she countered obstinately.
Wolf faced her, his countenance flushed:
“Why do you insist on going there?”
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“To help you and keep you company for one thing.”
“But I don’t need any help, don’t you get it?”
“Surgeons need assistants in operations, don’t they?”
Wolf was miffed.
“In the good old days a village urchin sufficed or a woman.”
“I will never believe that any unskilled, untrained villager can be more
useful and helpful than a licensed doctor. And as you have remarked you’ll have a
large number of sick to deal with, and that formerly you had to employ sundry
haphazard helpers in dressing up wounds, etc. In addition, you need a woman’s
hand around you, one to remind you and help you with your chores. Moreover
there’s nothing here in Warsaw tying me down that I hold dear.”
Wolf grew irate.
“It’s your own fault. You ought to have been tied up and firmly. There’s a
wide field of opportunity here in the Capital. Here you’ll become successful, and
here you’ll find yourself a suitable husband. At any rate, there’s no need to get
deeper into this since it ultimately depends on me, and I’m telling you straight that
I can’t take you with me. My conscience won’t rest peacefully for a minute, and I
will feel like a lowlife scoundrel to deprive you of society, of ways of civilization.
I’m old, my wants and comforts are simple, and my reward - helping those in need.
You are still young; you have the entire future ahead of you. You are entitled to a
personal happiness.”
Lucy shook her head.
“You are professing this not so quite convincingly, knowing very well that
my happiness, my great expectation is to be with you.”
“Utter bunkum. In a months or a year your romantic fancies will evaporate
poisoned by periods of disenchantment, boredom and unhappiness. And I would
have to carry the burden of the guilt on my shoulders. No, I stated it wrong. I
won’t be carrying it for I will never permit you to come with me. This is the end of
the story. Now if you will be good enough to lend me your hand in liquidation of
all that junk, I’d be grateful. There’s so much stuff and I’m so impatient. I’d like
to move out as speedily as possible.”
The professor’s imperious tone prompted Lucy to drop the subject for now,
being conscious of the futility of subsequent arguments. Contrary to her utter
dejection and disappointment she didn’t attempt to stall or delay his departure. She
zealously sought out the prospective buyers and spiritedly haggled for prices. She
also assisted the professor with new purchases.
Finally everything was sold. The departure day had been set for the 14th of
April. On the 13th Wolf had bidden farewell to Lucy. He was taking an early
morning train, and wanted to spare her accompanying him in the wee hours to the
main terminal.
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“When I settle myself and put the things properly in order I’ll send you an
invitation. I’ll be glad if you’ll visit me there for a week or even for your summer
vacation.”
She shook hands with him, and he was pleasantly surprised that she didn’t
volunteer to see him off to the terminal; neither was she unduly saddened by his
departure, or perhaps she was putting on an act so as not to upset him.
“What a nice person,” he cogitated contemplatively as they had parted. “I’d
say a girl with a golden heart.”
For a short moment, chagrined, he regretted being so inflexible by
categorically rejecting her offer of accompanying him to the far-off province.
Though almost instantaneously there came sober afterthoughts.
“There should be a new, exciting phase in her life. She has to hitch to
someone much younger.”
Next morning at six o’clock he had been already at the terminal, with Joseph
and divers travel trunks which Joseph expedited. Antecedent to the train departure,
while pacing up and down the platform, Wolf subconsciously glanced at his watch.
He had staunchly insisted that Lucy shouldn’t see him off; he was rather
disappointed that she didn’t show up. For a moment he was saddened to the point
of dejection.
The conductors’ shouts ordering passengers to board the train woke him
from his trance. He shook hands with Joseph and scaled the steps of the first-class
wagon. Through the open window of his compartment a dazzling shaft of sunrays
leaped in. He leaned out searching the deserted platform. The train moved at the
appointed minute. Wolf stood still in the window, beholding the distancing city,
the mean metropolis that had overwhelmed him, broken him to pieces, digested
and sucked him dry to be excreted out of its innards as worthless offal.
“May God in his boundless mercy forgive them all,” his lips whispered
feverishly, yet these words didn’t reach his heart which was aching with sorrow
and regrets.
And with that frightening feeling of loneliness he knew perfectly well that
on reaching his destination the melancholy mood perhaps would cease, presently
though it took a hard toll on him.
The train wheels rumbled over the hindmost junction points. The tall
buildings were disappearing with accelerated speed. The giant smokestacks of the
odious monster slowly dissolved on the horizon.
Behind him he heard the door of the compartment opening.
He turned.
There stood Lucy with a traveling suitcase in her hand.
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175
CHAPTER VIII
Lucy erupted into a jocular titter.
“As you’ll see for yourself you’ll find me very useful, indeed,” she
verbalized, opening her valise and taking out sandwiches neatly wrapped in wax
paper.
“So you won’t suffer hunger.”
“What gave you the idea?” Wolf looked incredulously surprised.
“Purely by chance I phoned the railroad information and learned that there
was no restaurant wagon in this train. Hence it was not a brain teaser to draw the
proper inference. In addition, I’m certain you’ve arrived here without breakfast.
So providently I took provisions with me.”
“Why, that’s a whole pantry.”
“There’s never too many of good things, besides the nearest station with a
food buffet is hours away. Trust me, sir, in no time this pantry will be quite
despoiled.”
Lucy’s prognostics were fulfilled to the word. Their appetite was not only
whetted by fine weather, early rise and a good mood. After a short slew of
opening objections and a few reproaches Wolf had to reconcile with the reality,
assuaged by the fact how profoundly he was touched by Lucy’s insubordination.
He listened attentively to her future plans, which by no means were limited
only to assisting him. She had already devised a schedule of action. First she’d
tackle on a grand scale a propaganda campaign in villages on the theme of personal
hygiene. In his turn Wolf acquainted her with the current conditions she might
encounter. He described the notable personalities, local habits and the ways
prevailing in the mill, in Radoliszki and its environs.
They were so absorbed with themselves they didn’t hear a low noise of the
slightly ajar door and didn’t notice a hand which stealthily crept inside. It slid into
the compartment for just a split second, deftly reached into the inner pocket of
Wolf’s overcoat which so carelessly had been hanging by the door. The hand
without rustle retrieved the pocket content and noiselessly closed the door. Next
wasting no time the thief nonchalantly trooped through two wagons and in an
empty corridor of the third, looking cautiously around, pulled a thick wallet out of
his pocket. He opened it checking its content. He whistled through the teeth at the
sight of a wad of large banknotes which he perfunctorily extracted and placed
inside of his suit jacket. In the wallet there were documents and such, worthless to
him. He was ready to discard it through the window when with the corner of his
eye he detected something green. He assumed it was a dollar bill. He retrieved it;
it happened to be a receipt. He unfolded it and read:
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“Received from Mr. Rafael Wolf the sum...”
The hand and the face froze stiff. Another low whistle escaped from his
mouth in the wake of further inspection of the wallet. There was a passport,
receipts, visiting cards... He had no doubt whatsoever whose wallet he had
pinched.
In a slow motion he reached for the banknotes and scrupulously replaced
them in the wallet. Having secreted the wallet in his breast pocket he leisurely
retraced his steps back to Wolf’s compartment. Through the partially open
curtains he saw a brown coat.
This time he brazenly opened the door and entered.
At first they didn’t recognize him. He wore an elegant navy blue suit and
only a slightly worn-out melon shaped hat. They had never ever seen him thus
properly attired.
Professor Wolf fixed his eyes at him and incredulously exclaimed:
“Yemiol, it’s you son-of-a-gun!”
“You found me out, my prince. What luck! I’ve been unmasked. Nowadays
in Poland one can’t even travel incognito. Sorry, my respects, madam. And where
are you off to, you two? There’s no more flesh to butcher in Warsaw?”
He appraised them both speculatively and tipping his hat added:
“My thousand apologies; perhaps congratulations are in order? Long live!
Hurray! You are on a honeymoon trip, yes?”
Wolf blushed, whereas Lucy gave a peal of laughter.
“Deplorably not...”
“Not?” Yemiol sighed deeply as if being relieved; reclining himself
comfortably he sputtered gaily:
“In that event I can accompany you without being obtrusive.”
“And where are you going?” Lucy pried out of him in her turn.
“Nowadays it’s a fad to embark on a journey into the unknown. In my
instance it’s predicated by an inexorable quirk of fate which propels me into it, and
incidentally will depend on the conductor’s tolerance having discovered that I
don’t have a ticket. Conductors believe that every passenger ought to pay a fare,
whereas myself on numerous occasions I’ve attempted to dissuade them of their
misguided point of view. Without much success though for they are a caste of
people who are very restive and incapable to embrace new trends, and frequently
owing to their intransigence I was compelled to disembark in the most improbable
places. Yet I found a positive side in it having an opportunity to become better
acquainted with more or less picturesque parts of my homeland, alas there’s a
negative side of it too since it prevents me from reaching my destination on time.”
“I see you do like traveling, don’t you?” Lucy plied him further, prolonging
the banter.
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“Oh, yes. Traveling is educational,” he elucidated, “and I’ve always been an
advocate of tourism in all of its forms. Well, bombarded from every side by:
Support tourism! Tour your country! Travel throughout Poland! How can I
remain indifferent?”
“But the posters,” contended Lucy, “do not promote traveling without
paying for fare.”
“It’s a mere bureaucratic oversight,” stated Yemiol. “What’s the difference
whether one rides with a ticket or without it? Quelle difference? The narrow,
simple-minded individuals dub one a tourist and the other one a tramp. Yet the
person who travels one way or another remains the same. He doesn’t change at all.
The only distinction between them is the amount of cash in their pockets. Man
touring his country without a wallet is dubbed a vagrant, whereas the one with it a
tourist. I’m going to validate the fallacy of such definition from the philosophical
point of view and from the practical point, too.”
He hadn’t finished. A conductor entered the compartment and in a
stereotyped parlance announced:
“May I see your tickets, please?”
He perforated those handed over by the professor and Lucy, turned to
Yemiol, regarding him distrustfully.
“Your ticket, please,” he snapped at him.
“Charon the son of Erebos, tell me why in the hell for few measly obols you
do exploit Stevenson’s steam engine invention? Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? I
implore you now, rebel against your uncivilized tendencies which ensnared you
with avaricious tentacles, and thus they are paralyzing the liberty of my locomotion
and preventing the interregional penetrations by others.”
The dejected conductor helplessly looked around; he spoke up with less than
usual authority in his voice.
“Bah humbug! Now will you be good enough to show me your ticket?”
“Ha, ha, ha!” Yemiol snickered derisively. “Are you for real, my friend?
You are not entertaining the possibility that I indeed possess a ticket?”
“Please, I’m not here for fun,” the conductor uttered authoritatively, “and
furthermore, do not get chummy with me. I’m not your friend. You’ll exhibit
your ticket at once or I’ll throw you off the train at the next stop.”
“It won’t be that easy, carissimo? According to the regulation to which you
must strictly adhere, a passenger who for whatever reason has not purchased the
ticket can finalize it in the train with a small surcharge to it. I’m such a passenger.”
Saying this, with a contemptuous expression on his face, he plucked Wolf’s
bulging wallet out of his jacket, whisked one large banknote out of it and handed it
to the conductor.
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The well piled wallet befuddled the conductor, who earlier with his trained
eyes had categorized the passenger with a melon hat as an ordinary bum without
one penny to his soul; it dawned on him that perhaps he encountered one of those
rich eccentric gentlemen.
“Are you also going to Ludwikowo?” he addressed him, ogling him
doubtfully.
“To Ludwikowo?” Yemiol betrayed curiosity.
“Indeed why not? I’ll take this train as far as Ludwikowo, however will you
illuminate me, Archimedes, why in the hell are you sending me there?”
The conductor handed him the ticket and change, giving him a vicious
glance.
“You are not communicating properly with me, signore conduttore.”
As the conductor had closed the door, Yemiol sighed with ease.
“As you can observe, Your Highness, without inkling about it you have
supplied me with a passage to some god-forsaken Ludwikowo. In my gratitude
please accept this small token of my appreciation.”
Then he pressed the wallet into Wolf’s hands.
“Why, but this is my wallet,” Wolf blurted out with astonishment.
“That’s right,” acknowledged Yemiol, “and only thanks to my charitable
tendency it hasn’t become mine. Ah, my prince, you’ve touched a weak spot in
my generous lion’s heart. So be it! Magnanimously I’m giving back your bloated
wallet which I’ve acquired by ways of experience and a deft pair of hands. For the
future I advise you, my golden Midas, not to hang your coat near the compartment
door.”
Wolf undoubtedly was somewhat taken aback by the unsavory spectacle,
whereas Lucy glared at Yemiol in consternation, openly averse.
Yemiol paying no attention to both of them continued his soliloquy. At one
point he abruptly hit himself on the forehead.
“By any chance is the conspicuous duo going to Ludwikowo?”
“Yes,” confirmed Lucy, nodding.
“Will you be kind enough to inform me ahead of our arrival, so that my
servants will have enough time to pack my traveling chests?”
“Oh, there’s still plenty of time,” responded Lucy, “at least twelve or so
hours.”
“I guess that Ludwikowo must be somewhere near the North Pole?”
“No friend,” Wolf said with a grin. “We won’t even cross the polar circle.”
“That’s the welcoming news, given that I didn’t bring with me neither
harnessed huskies with sleds, nor Eskimo helpers. Still can you enlighten me, why
are you going there? Summer vacations I bet?”
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“No friend, we are going to reside there, partially on account of you. Yes,
you have awakened in me my distaste for the city.”
“I’ve made you cognizant of it, indeed. Well, a human being encompasses
an unending gamut of unconscious inclinations, vague penchants and whims,
sympathies and aversions. Let’s consider a grand piano which stands astride like a
stupid cow having no idea what’s inside of it, whereas it merely contains an
assortment of strung wires with which it can emanate various sounds. When a
virtuoso takes a seat at that seemingly dead box he can create, by the virtue of his
talent, the entire heaven and hell of music. I’m proud to advance that I am
influencing the mortal souls in a similar fashion, particularly their morality. Stick
with me and you’ll achieve the highest stage of self-understanding and eternal
peace.”
Wolf put in with levity.
“I’m not objecting.”
“Objecting to what?”
“What I meant you are welcome to come along and keep us company.”
“Will you excuse my parlance, what the hell for?”
“So you can prove yourself being a virtuoso. You have no family in Warsaw
or other ties forcing you to turn back. You’ll live in the country, among different
folk. I’ll introduce you to a score of down-to-earth good souls you believe don’t
exist.”
After few short arguments Yemiol consented. At any rate, it was irrelevant
to him where he’d pass his time, without admitting that he grew addicted to
confabulations with Wolf.
“Milord, I’ll accept your gracious invitation.”
The professor added visibly pleased:
“As you see, brother, our crew swells in numbers. Now when you behold
our Radoliszki and its environs you’ll never wish to quit the place. Also I’m
willing to bet you that you’ll grow bored of idleness and you’ll help us - colleague
Kanska and me.”
“Help whom?” he ejaculated in a strange manner.
“Doctor Kanska, Lucy Kanska,” emphasized Wolf, pointing vis-a-vis.
The cynical, buffoonish Yemiol’s countenance abruptly became serious and
focused. His bloodshot eyes assiduously scrutinized Lucy’s face and figure.
“I didn’t know your name was Kanska, doctor?”
“Since my birth,” Lucy felt slightly amused.
“Are you from Sandomierz region?” he queried with his eyes transfixed at
her.
“No, I’m from Miechow though I had a family in Sandomierz.”
There was a long interval of silence.
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“Are you well-acquainted with those parts?” Lucy looked up at Yemiol.
Yemiol didn’t answer for a while; eventually he intoned:
“Man wanders places.”
Evidently Lucy’s family name somehow had touched off Yemiol. At the
very moment he had heard the name of Kanska he clammed up, sulking, lost in a
catatonic trance.
“I was in Sandomierz once,” owned up Wolf as if he hadn’t witnessed the
sudden transformation of Yemiol’s demeanor. “It was way back when I was still a
student. A quaint town, ancient buildings beautifully preserved and restored. I
remember it well, can you believe it? Following a narrow cobbled street on the left
there was a small brick house from top to bottom cloaked in green. I lodged there
with my friends and later we rented a boat and floated in it down the Vistula to
Warsaw. It was one of the memorable experiences of my past, and one of the best
summer vacations I have ever had. Summers were typically spent abroad working
in hospitals to earn extra money for room and board for the incoming academic
term.”
The train pulled to a stop at a small station.
“Are you related to Mrs. Elisabeth Kanska?” inquired Yemiol.
“She was my aunt.”
“Your aunt?” repeated Yemiol. “So that Michael Kanski is your uncle?”
“Yes, have you met them?”
“I met them casually the way one meets another. Michael Kanski, students
dubbed him a tapir. He should be really obese by now, resembling a rhinoceros.
Can you imagine getting fat, grunting in a warm morass of a bourgeois nest.”
Lucy shook her head.
“Not at all, he’s dead. He died when I was still a child. They are both dead.
My aunt passed away years ago.”
She paused and added emphatically:
“I loved her very much. She was like a mother to me. She was one of the
noblest women I knew, and I’ve fond memories of her.”
She interjected it purposefully, intending to safeguard the name of the
estimable person against Yemiol’s cynical remarks. Notwithstanding the above he
continued guffawing, snickering and finally disclosed maliciously:
“Oh, I also have fond memories of her.”
Thereupon he ensconced himself in the corner of the compartment and
immersed himself into a gloomy silence. Wolf seemingly also was lost in reveries.
Lucy pulled out a book and started to peruse it. The train sped, traversing gentle
rolling hills covered with young trees and shrubbery, interspaced with pale green
fields of spring wheat, and gray thick thatched village cottages.
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The sun was already on the west side, descending; its blinding rays in golden
streaks were falling at low angle into the compartment.
182
CHAPTER IX
They breakfasted early in Prokop Sapiela’s mill. There lived people who
worked, and it’s manifestly obvious that that work required strength and endurance
which one could only sustain with proper nourishment. So that before redhead
Vitalis lifted up the gates of the sluice and old Prokop roused his son, the women
moaning and yawning, scratching their backs and blowing their noses had already
bustled in the kitchen.
In the black cavern of the stove glowed solitary charcoals, yet before one
could recite two “Our Fathers,” Zonia would rekindle the yesterday’s cinders
heaped in the corner of the furnace, relit it and feed it with pine chips until it’d
begin to burn fiercely. Olga would fetch from the corridor an armful of beechlogs, depositing it noisily on the floor. The timber felled in the previous winter,
sawed and cut up into neat logs and stored in airy stacks burned easily, crackling
and sparkling.
Old Mrs. Sapiela had been already up. She went to bed with chickens and
got up with the first roosters’ crow. She didn’t sleep well. As she grew older and
wealthier she seemed to be burdened by more impediments and worries, besides
she was afraid that if she didn’t supervise the household chores everything would
get wasted. Thus from dawn to dusk she nagged in her high-pitched voice,
rebuking alike the members of her family and farm animals and even pieces of
furniture. According to her everyone and everything conspired against her, to
annoy her and to sabotage the everyday chores.
Her bickering might have been trying to others, if any of them had taken it at
its face value. Zonia and Olga knew that at dawn they had to start a fire in the
stove, warm up cabbage with bacon, lay out the table; fetch bread from the pantry,
etc. Young Nataly needed no reminding. Still half-asleep she ran to the sty to let
Whitie and Blackie into the pasture, ducks and geese into the ponds, and to prepare
fodder of verdure and potatoes in the trough for squealing pigs. Vasil opened the
mill doors and set the machinery into motion, and if there were no customers with
fresh grain to grind, he leisurely strutted about the yard pretending to survey and
look about it, nearing the one window which distinctly differed from other
windows. This one was adorned with calico curtains tied with pink and blue
ribbons in the middle into two beautiful love knots.
It was one of the windows of Prokop’s quarters. For three or so months
already Donka Solen, a distant family relation, distant yet very dear, had occupied
it.
However she had not been readily accepted with open arms; at the beginning
old Prokop not once, not twice had had to scold the women severely, and even had
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given Olga a stout poke under her ribs when she had placed a bowl of pea soup in
front of that city foundling, as she had derided her, in such way that half of it had
spilled into Donka’s lap. Old Prokop had motives of his own to bring this
foundling under his roof. Allegedly years ago he had wronged his bosom brother,
sending him penniless into the world, about which, although scores of years
already had passed, rumors abounded accusing Prokop of avarice and indifference
to the situation of his less fortunate relatives. No one was certain whether these
things had actually occurred or not, but years had passed by and were passing by
and with them new concepts were cramming Prokop’s hoary head and novel
sentiments his heart. So that when he had been notified that in Vilna, Teophil
Solen, one of his nephews, had died leaving his daughter to the mercy of fate, he
had resolved to take her in.
Without explanation he had packed his bundle and set off to Vilna. When he
had beheld the girl, not betraying himself, he had been visibly touched by her
plight. She was very young, barely eighteen years of age, pale and scrawny with
weak lungs. Partly because of her poor health she wasn’t able to find employment,
although she had finished a high school with excellent grades. Her father, a
custodian with a renowned noble family had died of consumption. Prokop had
surmised that properly nourished the girl should recover in no time, and would be
useful as well, for instance tutoring young Nataly. Perhaps he still had entertained
other plans upon which he hadn’t wished to dwell too long.
Thus Donka had arrived shy and intimidated, afraid of everyone starting
with the dog, Rabczyk, and ending with the grandpa, for Prokop had preferred her
to address him that way. The weeks were turning into months and the girl was
maturing visibly. She grew taller, put on flesh, and her large dark, cloudy eyes,
shy and timid became scintillating and alive. Her cheeks got colors and her lush
brown hair thickened and shined with luster.
Donka ignoring the initial effrontery was treated as a queen. She slept
longer than others, getting up at breakfast and was never bothered with household
chores. If she felt so inclined she did this or that, sewing or small washing, or
helping with cleaning up. Mainly she was occupied tutoring Nataly, and not too
much of that either. In any case, she was not a burden to Prokop’s family, whereas
Vasil particularly took a liking to her, preferring not to advertise about it. Being of
age when young men crave the company of young women, he, alas found none.
The Radoliszki maidens looked askance at him, perhaps he was rich enough for
them, yet he lacked education. On the other hand, the village girls seemed too
simple and too vulgar to him, whereas Donka, a city girl, polished and educated
treated him as her equal. She appreciated his singing, willingly accompanied him
fishing and in her turn read him fanciful stories which he reminisced, dreaming and
musing about the fortunes of its heroes.
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In Prokop’s mill, unlike in most other places, meals were served not just to
satisfy hunger. Breakfasts, lunches and dinners were kinds of the family’s
traditional ceremonies starting and ending with a prayer. They took their meals
conjointly, and if any one of them even occupied by pressing matters was absent,
Prokop didn’t conceal well his displeasure. Today all of them were together. In
the middle of the table stood a large bowl of steaming, tasty cabbage with bacon
and in another boiled potatoes, and although it was antecedent to the harvest there
was also a large, round loaf of bread. In this mill bread was never scarce. The
wooden spoons dug in turns in both bowls, yet not too hastily so that no one should
have been judged a glutton. Only three persons were served on separate plates: the
head of the family, Vasil and Donka. The latter one’s privileges at first had been
resented by Zonia and Olga, though with time they had got used to the above
distinction. At any rate, with Prokop’s obstinate nature they had no choice and at
length grew to become fond of Donka and didn’t begrudge much her being thus
favored.
The breakfast was winding down. Prokop gently stroked his beard and
mustache, readying to recite the grace, when the door opened and in its frame
loomed a tall, slightly stooping though a husky, square shouldered figure. The
visitor was wearing city clothes and an elegant felt hat. For a spell he stood there
grinning, took off his hat and bowed chivalrously:
“Praised be the name of the Lord.”
Only now they had recognized him. Not from the face or attire. Once when
he had lived among them he had worn a simple peasant shirt or a sheepskin halfcoat, whereas his beard had covered half of his face.
“Anthony!” Zonia jumped up first, overturning the bench.
Nataly rushed to him. Prokop, his face flushed as if he were stricken with a
seizure awaited him with open arms. Vasil merrily repeated:
“Good God... what a surprise.”
Old Mrs. Sapiela without any sense began to clear the table of breadcrumbs,
whereas Olga stood there petrified with her mouth agape.
There was no end to the welcoming, at first timidly, embracing him like one
of their own. Hadn’t he lived with them for many long years the way they lived?
So what that it came out that he was a wealthy gentleman and a famous professor.
In their memories they’ve cherished him the way they’ve remembered him, as
Anthony from the addition rooms, a good, honest and reliable friend, obliging and
kind and loved by all.
He was seated at the table. The women rushed in with cold cuts, cheeses
and a bottle of juniper vodka. They fetched white bread and brewed tea.
“I’d expect St. Prokop’s visitation first than yours,” eagerly exclaimed the
proprietor of the mill. “Here not one day passes by without recalling your name.
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Countless times as I passed the addition I’d suffer in my mind, well, he has all but
forgotten about us. He has purged us from his heart. And that has weighed
heavily on my heart.”
Wolf shook Prokop’s hand in a tight grip.
“I’ve never forgotten, my friend. The best proof of it I’m here, ain’t I?”
“God bless you for that. My God, now we’ll be swamped by multitudes
when they learn that you have come for a visit.”
Olga flayed her arms.
“Let them come.”
Wolf slowly scanned the faces of all gathered around him.
“I didn’t come for a visit,” he shook his head.
“What do you mean by that, Anthony?” Vasil was taken aback.
“I’ve come to live with you, to abide here with you forever.”
There was a deadly silence. Everyone stared at Wolf with wide-open eyes,
then at one another, astonished and incredulous. Prokop addressed him first:
“You are not joking, are you? Why, you, a gentleman... to live with us?”
“I’m very serious, Prokop. I want to stay with you, if you’ll have me.”
“Dear God,” moaned Zonia.
“Amazing,” uttered Vitalis, shaking his redhead.
Only Nataly was not surprised. She screamed happily and rushed to
embrace Wolf.
“Yes, yes, stay with us, please stay with us!”
Prokop first spread his arms wide, patted his beard, peered somewhat
puzzled at Wolf and went on:
“As God is my witness I’m glad, all of us are glad to have you, yet somehow
I can’t fathom it. Why do you wish to live among us? We are but a simple, poor
folk, whereas you are a great lord and a celebrity. You lived in luxury and
opulence in a fashionable villa. Where will you sleep? What about your meals?
Can you understand my reservations?”
“As long as you agree to have me among you,” said Wolf, “I’m not
worrying about the rest. I’m very happy to be back with you. I don’t need riches,
villas, etc. I need kindness, understanding and goodwill I’ve never received there
in the metropolis, neither gratification sadly to say. I’ve dwelt among a mean,
envious and avaricious lot. Those have been the trying times for me, and when I
couldn’t stand it any longer I prayed you would accept me after the old custom,
that here as before I’d find a roof over my head, and still would bring succor to
needy. There in the City they have hundreds of doctors, perhaps even better than
me, perhaps smarter, irrefutably younger. There they’ve turned their backs on me,
so I thought why not return to Radoliszki, and I’ve returned.”
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Zonia who was sobbing wiped her tears with the palm of her hand, whereas
Vasil visibly overjoyed cried out:
“Dear God, joyous news and good tidings to us all.”
Prokop by now had realized that Wolf was not jesting and was firmly
determined on settling in the mill.
“Do you indeed wish to live with us?”
“Yes, I indeed do.”
“And you’ll treat sick as before.” Nataly pulled on his arm.
“Certainly I will.”
“We’d better make the addition ready again, yes?” pointed out Vitalis.
“Two window panes are cracked,” interjected Olga. “I’ll call a glazier from
town.”
“Forget about the glazier,” Vasil irked interrupted her.
“The professor won’t be living in the addition but in the house.”
“Yes, in Prokop’s quarters.”
Wolf shook his head.
“No, no rooms, the addition will suit me fine. Somehow I got accustomed to
it in the past and was quite happy there. Besides, I’ve other plans, grand plans. I
have money with me, enough to erect a small house nearby, with an infirmary,
with space for a couple of beds for patients who in the post operational state can’t
be sent right away home.”
“Do you mean a sort of a clinic?” asked Nataly.
“Yes, a small one, for local needs,” he affirmed modestly.
The project was an intriguing and dazzling proposition. Having a lengthy
contemplative pause Prokop disclosed:
“Your decision takes me by surprise. The Lord works in the mysterious
ways. Once I took you in, and I can’t thank you enough for your goodness.”
“What goodness, forget it Prokop,” Wolf interrupted him.
“Don’t deny it,” stubbornly protested Prokop. “Till my dying day I won’t be
able to pay you back for saving my son from being an invalid, and God have mercy
on my soul, if I die tomorrow I’ll die happily knowing that Vasil will be carrying
on. That doesn’t mean that I don’t value the help you rendered onto others.
Remembering you my neighbors don’t look sideways at me; on the contrary while
they ride by they turn their heads and with a smile remark:
‘“There in that mill that professor witchdoctor used to live who cured sick
for free.’ And now I hear you’ve decided to leave the Capital, to forfeit your
comforts and financial gains in order to move with us. You are an extraordinary
man, a saint and all who have met you will agree with me.”
“Please friends, don’t get carried away,” Wolf merely interposed. “There
are plenty of goodwill souls in this world. Oh, as an example I didn’t arrive alone.
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With me came a doctor, a young woman doctor who unselfishly has volunteered
with her help.”
“Where is she?” Vasil stepped forward, looking outside the window.
“She’s at the Radoliszki Inn.”
Zonia pouting her lips intimated eloquently, being slightly affected:
“Who needs another doctor’s aid. Wasn’t Nataly’s or my help sufficient?”
Wolf laughed.
“Ah, now it’ll differ from the past. We will have a small pharmacy, new
instruments and sophisticated medical equipment, the stuff I wasn’t able even to
fancy before. Presently I’ll be capable to save those who previously were beyond
help.”
Suddenly Prokop pulled himself together.
“Come on women,” he barked, “have you forgotten that the guest’s in the
house.”
The women as on cue jumped up, pushed Wolf’s seat nearer the table,
placed plates before him, poured tea, encouraging him not to refuse food or drink.
Prokop in his turn drank a toast in honor of the auspicious guest, and as an
exception to the rule allowed Vasil to have a glass of juniper vodka.
“Ah, let him have it,” he condescended. “One drink is not a sin considering
such a special occasion.”
The kitchen was abuzz with a jumble of voices: shouts, cries, questions and
answers.
“Now it’s your round,” Wolf queried them encouragingly. “Tell me what’s
new with you?”
“Nothing much,” Prokop waved his hand. “Somehow we survive with
God’s help. Working, that’s all.”
Wolf looked up at Olga and Zonia.
“I took it for granted that you two have got hitched by now?”
Zonia’s face turned crimson. She swayed significantly her wide haunches.
“Things of that nature do not pop into my head. Though Olga got married in the
meantime and for the second time has become a widow.”
“A widow, again? I can hardly believe?”
“It’s true, it’s true,” confirmed Prokop. “She wed a railroad man. It didn’t
last even half a year. Bad omen, that’s all.”
Olga commented with a grin:
“Now for sure no one will be keen on marrying me.”
Wolf gently stroked Nataly’s hair, who was sitting next to him.
“Soon you’ll have to concern yourself with Nataly, I mean with her wedding
arrangements.”
“I’ll never marry,” Nataly avowed.
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“Stupid girl,” old Mrs. Sapiela vocalized with conviction.
Wolf’s eyes rested on Donka and on Vasil.
“I see, Vasil, that you have already arranged it for yourself.”
Vasil blushed in consternation and was lost for an answer. Donka chuckled,
whereas Prokop deemed only proper to come up with an explanation.
“She is my distant kin, Donka Solen, from Vilna. She’s an orphan. I brought
her here to live with us. She’s tutoring Nataly...”
Pausing he added. “She’s a city girl, educated.”
“Educated?” Wolf appeared pleasantly surprised.
“Not really, sir, only the rudiments of education, a high school diploma.
And when my daddy died, obviously…”
“Sure,” logically put in Vitalis. “No money, no education.”
“Has anything interesting happened in the area?” Wolf plied the old miller.
Prokop launched into his systematic account: who died, who got married and
so on and so forth.
“What about the gamekeeper’s daughter? Is she still alive?” Wolf was
intrigued.
“She’s alive, but what kind of living is this? Better dead than alive; only a
burden to her folks. She’s bedridden, suffering terribly, just skin and bones what’s
remained of her.”
“And Doctor Pawlicki is he still practicing in Radoliszki?”
“Oh yes, and his fortunes have manifestly improved. He was widowed and
shortly after married a woman of property. A manor and 250 acres, though mostly
pasture. At least eighty cows on it and a nice chunk of forest, seventy acres I
think?”
“Closer to one hundred,” Vasil dared to correct his father.
“It’s not one hundred, it’s seventy,” Prokop angrily reprimanded Vasil.
“From the Black Stone to the ford a hundred acres? Are you mad or what? Well,
he rebuilt his house and rides in his own coach emulating a great lord.”
“But his wife is at least ten years his senior,” disdainfully opined Zonia,
giggling wholeheartedly.
“So what that she’s older,” angrily threw in old Agata, Prokop’s wife.
“She’s a respectable housekeeper, not a floozy who wastes her time on frivolities
and dances neglecting her chores.”
“Who wastes time on dances?”
“You!” shouted the old woman.
“Me? Ha, ha, ha! I go once a year to dance...”
“Once a year? What a liar!”
“Women quiet down!” Prokop snarled at them. “Phew, now they are trying
to reconcile their dispute. Get busy! Don’t stand here wagging your tongues!”
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CHAPTER XII
The train from Vienna was scheduled at nine thirty. Kolski already at nine
had been at the terminal. He had telephoned the clinic that he’d be detained in the
town an hour or so. He had purchased a rose bouquet from a flower booth and had
bitterly cursed himself for doing it, comparing himself to a silly youth buying
flowers for his sweetheart.
Frankly he didn’t know why he had showed up here in the first place. There
was neither sense nor reason in it. Why to the devil he didn’t ignore Mrs. Nina’s
telegram? She must have been out of her rocker to inform him in a dispatch of the
hour of her arrival.
At any rate, he should have come to receive her in an official capacity,
without stupid flowers, the way one ought to the boss’s wife. For better effect he
ought to have brought along one of his junior colleagues.
“Who does she think she is?” he grew angry with himself. “She’s bound to
jump to the inference that I’m in love with her. I must tell her straight into her face
that she’s mistaken!”
Presently he hated her, simultaneously being baffled and titillated by his
feeling toward her, a mixture of curiosity, apprehension and a large dose of
concupiscence. Admittedly she bewitched him with her allure, and she was doing
it magnificently. At times he could swear this woman played with him like with
her fox terrier pet and suborned him to the role of a slave. Her demeanor
supported the above suggestion. Only her eyes all times were alert, wintry cold
and always on guard. They were intimidating, not a friendly pair of eyes. Only
when she closed her eyelids and she was acting it up marvelously, slow, lazily,
sometimes rolling her irises up, he relaxed a bit. While kissing her, she had
invariably closed her eyes shut. Then he had had doubts as well. Mrs. Nina had
artfully feigned her passion. If she had desired him in earnest she would have
become his lover a long time ago, whereas actually he wasn’t very bent on it. He
was frequently assailed and frightened by forebodings of an inevitable encounter,
which consequently only heightened his doubts and anxiety. Having no tangible
proofs he nevertheless didn’t trust her, sensing intuitively that she toyed with his
affection, a sort of a game or sport to her.
Irrespective of it he wasn’t able to summon enough courage to express his
intense resentment referring to her deceitful comportment. Prior to her journey to
Vienna they had been seeing each other on average two to three times a week;
often taking long perambulations in the Lazienki Park or in the Botanic Garden.
When weather was not suitable they had whiled away an hour or two in a cafe.
Finally one day she had announced:
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“Tomorrow I’ll come for a visit. I’d like to see your apartment.”
He had had to pretend being ecstatic. In all fairness he had been terrified.
He had bought flowers, assorted fruits and a bottle of wine, cleaned the flat in and
out and hid things he deemed she might find cheap. She had supposed to come at
five, but had never showed up. At six she had phoned, explaining:
“Jerry is at home and categorically I can’t abandon him. What luck! You
are not angry with me, are you?”
Having being awarded a reprieve he was so glad and relieved he had almost
fessed up how he had blessed the professor for spending the evening at home.
Relaxed he had penned a lengthy missive to Lucy. Several days later he had
decided to visit Mrs. Nina, knowing beforehand that Professor Dobraniecki had
been out. Luckily it all had ended with passionate kisses.
He chastised himself on account of his apprehension. Logically thinking he
ought to amply avail himself of the propitious fortuity of a light romance; instead
he envisaged the liaison with Mrs. Nina as a permanent incarceration, or at least a
coerced dependence. And while she bewitched him with her allure, beauty,
intelligence and glamour of the worldly lady, he’d preferably sustain indignity and
disdain, playing the role of a naive, shy ingenue than behave as a man.
Now what’s with this wretched bouquet? Just minutes ago he had looked
about for a place to ditch it. Unfortunately everywhere he had turned there were
people, scores of people. Besides, his action might have seemed ludicrous,
discarding just a purchased bouquet. Perhaps they had even observed him buying
it. And even if they hadn’t they would have guessed his motive for such an
irrational conduct. Kolski was wrathfully mad. To make it worse at the adjacent
platform he had espied Miss Zarzecka. He hadn’t tip off his hat, pretending not to
see her, although this didn’t appease him:
“Naturally the sorry biddy will write Lucy that she saw me at the terminal,
standing with these damn flowers in my hand. That’s what I need now?”
The train arrived on time.
In the window of the sleeping coach there stood the incomparably
enchanting Mrs. Nina. She seemed to him more beautiful than ever, even more
beautiful than the picture he carried in his head. She greeted him with an eloquent
gaze and a sensuous hand squeeze.
The ugly biddy, Miss Zarzecka, as if in spite of him stood nearby staring at
them with an irritable effrontery.
In front of the terminal a large, black limousine had been awaiting them.
Only while seating himself inside Kolski realized that he hadn’t offered Mrs. Nina
the flowers he absentmindedly twaddled in his hands. She became cognizant of his
embarrassment and stretching forth her hand said:
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“You are very thoughtful and this is my favorite color. In my imagination I
can connect colors with feelings. This very shade of red represents nostalgia.
What about you? Were you longing for me?”
“Frightfully,” he fessed up sincerely.
“That’s very admirable of you,” she put in affectionately, brushing tips of
her fingers over his lips.
He said mealy-mouthed as if embarrassed:
“And how’s the professor?”
Mrs. Nina’s countenance abruptly became tense.
“Ah, I’m really worried. He suffers terrible headaches and repeatedly lapses
into a melancholic depression. I should have stayed with him and should not have
come to Warsaw.”
She smiled radiantly and denotatively squeezed his hand. He lifted her hand
and pressed it to his lips.
“I’m glad you’ve come.”
He doubted himself whether his statement had been sincere. He didn’t deny
he was not drawn physically to her. She charged him with an electric current. Her
moves and gestures were feline in nature, soft, delicate and predatory. Her
perfumes intoxicated him, and her skin was unbelievably smooth.
She leaned toward him as if she had wished to kiss him.
“A chauffeur,” he mumbled just audibly.
“I’m so careless,” she murmured feigning contrition, “but you are as usual
on guard.”
He didn’t like that kind of flattery.
“Caution never fails.”
“At times your caution drives me insane? Can’t you relax once in a while?”
He absently waved his hand.
“Am I overreacting?”
“Continuously.”
He stalled for time, vividly recalling when once in an ambulatorium he had
squeezed Lucy’s hand, slightly hurting her, nearly fainting from rapture.
“We often fail to master our emotions,” he alluded enigmatically.
“Men, can you explicate to me why we are so crazy about you? You are
always so righteous and so proper. Our existence would be pointless if we were
unable to free ourselves of your ramifications of incumbency, code of honor,
precepts of law and other constraints. We know better how to enjoy ourselves,
how to live fully, and how to please you men. Life is so short.”
The limousine neared Frascati.
“Here we are,” spoke up Kolski. “You are going to take a nap, tired of the
journey.”
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She protested in an animated voice:
“Not at all, I slept as a baby. I always sleep well in a coach. Apparently I
was born to travel. Do you like to travel?”
“I haven’t done much traveling. I was to Berlin, Venice, besides I find
traveling tiresome.”
She gave him a swift disappointing glance.
“My, my, we do fancy opposite things. Yet I’m somewhat consoled; the
extremes attract as the popular catchphrase goes.”
The automobile came to a stop at the entrance of a picturesque villa. A
servant appeared in its doors. The chauffeur busied himself with the luggage.
Kolski took off his hat and bowed.
“Welcome home, Mrs. Nina. Now I’m going to say good-bye.”
“Out of the question,” she cut him off, feigning indignation.
“You’ll have breakfast with me.”
“I already had breakfast.”
“Because you had your breakfast you are going to condemn me to a solitary
confinement.”
She took him under his arm and led him toward the entrance.
“Can you bear the dreadful sight of a hungry creature ravishing
nourishment?”
“In your case it can never be dreadful, but...”
“Yet you have inserted ‘but.’”
“I have to get back to the clinic.”
“My charger is ready and my armor too. I blow you my kiss, my love, and
farewell to you. Don’t be ridiculous with your sacredness of duty. They will
manage splendidly without you.”
“I’m afraid,” he began, but she cut him short.
“And I’m afraid you show none of the above considerations for me. Please
have pity on me. An empty house is like a haunted place. Returning from my trip
it will depress me. Apart from it, I’m tired of you interminably reminding me of
commitments and responsibilities. It’s also my husband’s credo. At least you
ought to be more tolerant, not so rigorous. Let’s go, let’s go.”
In the hall he stammered again:
“They are awaiting me. I can’t…”
“Why don’t you telephone them from here that a patient has detained you in
the town? It’s quite a plausible excuse, isn’t it? Patients require attention during
emergencies, don’t they?”
She laughed exhibiting her flawlessly white teeth and added:
“Myself I’m also in need of your immediate attention, Doctor Kolski.”
He bristled and shot back.
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“Attention? You are blooming as a spring flower.”
“Aha, so you’ve noted that; for this you deserve a reward.”
She looked around. They were all alone. She stood on tiptoes and kissed
him on the mouth.
“It’s your fee paid in advance. Now your professional etiquette won’t let
you desert your patient,” she intimated frivolously.
He couldn’t convince her about the imperatives of the clinic business.
Submissively he had resigned himself to phone the clinic.
“Leave your hat here,” she urged him. “Let’s go.”
In the dining room the butler had already set the second cover.
“And now be a good boy and wait for me,” she added, pulling gently on the
lapels of his suit. “I’m going to take a bath, a fast one. In the meantime you can
telephone the clinic and invent a plausible excuse for your absence.”
The telephone was brought into the bedroom. Mrs. Nina purposefully didn’t
close the door of the bathroom. The bath had been already prepared for her. The
next minute the sound of splashing water reached Kolski’s ears. He was talking to
a head nurse, Mrs. Zaczynska. In an orderly fashion he issued dispositions
pertaining to his patients, and disclosed mysteriously that an emergency of great
importance had delayed him in the town. He put the receiver down and heard Mrs.
Nina speaking:
“Have you finished?”
“Yes, Mrs. Nina.”
“As you can see you’ve exaggerated your indispensability. You were
terrified that the clinic without you might collapse as a house of cards. Meanwhile
they are splendidly getting by on their own.”
“Splendidly or not they are expecting me there. Will you permit me to wait
in the hall?”
“If you prefer, in the meantime please fetch my robe? Only please, don’t
look up.”
Kolski surveyed the bedroom.
“There’s no robe here.”
“Of course not, it’s hanging behind the door in the bathroom.”
“How can I hand it to you?” he asked a trifle taken aback.
She tittered highly amused.
“Oh, dear John, you simply walk into the bathroom, take the bathrobe off the
hanger and give it to me. Being a doctor you have seen a naked woman before,
haven’t you?”
“Certainly I have,” he remarked testily, “but here I’m not acting as a
doctor.”
“Haven’t you seen a naked woman otherwise?”
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He was lost in consternation. He declaimed, collecting himself.
“I can’t be frank answering this holding dearly women deserving respect.”
Evidently she became amused again for she had another fit of laughter.
“I can assure you, doctor, that women who exhibit themselves in the nude to
men deserve no respect. Now please hand me the robe.”
There was no two ways about it. He had to obey her wish. He bit his lips
and entered the bathroom, a spacious room fitted with pink tiles. Fortunately the
tub was at the farther corner and the bathrobe near the door. He endeavored not to
stare at her; attempting not to betray his trepidation. She sat in the tub, with the
crossed arms covering her chest. He beheld her beautifully shaped shoulders and
her smooth, perfectly tanned skin. With an artificial indifference he took off the
robe and approached her.
“At your service, madam,” he mumbled in a hoarse voice.
“Carefully, don’t dip it in the water. Oh, you are a naughty boy. You are
looking at me. Haven’t I beseeched you not to?” she scolded him mildly feigning
being discomfited.
“I’m not looking at you,” he replied with ruffled brows.
“So please close your eyes and hand it over.”
He did precisely as he had been told. He heard a noisy splash and felt the
bathrobe filling with warm flesh.
“Thank you,” she said in a relaxed tone.
She wrapped the robe tightly about, and before he had time to move away
she had thrown her arms round his neck.
“Your modesty is irresistible,” she whispered in his ear, kissing him. “Will
you judge me now as being too frivolous?”
“You are jesting, aren’t you?” he protested not sure of himself.
He was gazing into her large green, scintillating eyes, which were inquisitive
and insatiably possessive. She skimmed her lips over his chin.
“You are habitually so immaculately shaved. Will you please wait for me in
the dining room?”
As he precipitously exited the bathroom, she called out:
“You will excuse me for having breakfast in my dressing gown. I’d rather
not waste time to dress.”
“Well, whatever you’re saying, Mrs. Nina.”
“You are not objecting, are you?” she teased him provocatively. “I mean
you being frequently so appropriately uninterested.”
“You have conjectured erroneously,” he replied with indifference.
“I’ll be ready in five minutes.”
She was in four. She came clad in a pale green dressing gown. He
perceived also that in haste she had daubed unevenly her cheeks in powder, still
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she looked enchantingly beautiful. She ate with a hearty appetite, conversing. At
one moment she unexpectedly put it to him:
“And what has happened to your lady doctor friend?”
She inquired in a casual tone, but Kolski involuntarily bristled.
“I’ve no inkling whatsoever. She has quit Warsaw altogether.”
“Don’t you write to each other?”
“No,” he lied.
Caressing his hand she whispered reassuringly:
“Didn’t I mention time heals?”
Yet he was too weak to muster enough courage to push her hand away.
“Indubitably,” he mumbled not convincingly.
He was profoundly affected and injured by her comment, and scoured his
brains for retaliation; he tried to provoke her alluding to a tryst with Colonel
Korsak who socially commingled with Dobranieckis. Colonel Korsak’s mien and
comportment were beyond reproach, nevertheless his good looks, temperament and
popularity in social circles should not be discounted.
“Then you can also easily forget Colonel Korsak,” he threw in impetuously.
She regarded him sharply.
“What do you mean by that crack?”
He shrugged it off.
She remained unperturbed.
“Dear doctor, I’d be deeply offended by your incise quips if they were not so
absurdly groundless and laughable, and the knowledge that you are quite conscious
of it.”
He lowered his eyes. Indeed, implicating Mrs. Nina into a tryst with
Colonel Korsak sounded as unfounded as implicating her into a tryst with any
passerby on the street.
“It was not intentional.”
She kept on.
“I think it was and to be frank it pleases me.”
“It does?”
“Yes, it does. It’s a proof, an undeniable proof that you are jealous.”
He wanted to snub it off.
“There’s no jealousy on my part.”
“Is it so hard for you to admit? Are you ashamed to acknowledge that you
are jealous of me?”
He sat silent with his head sunk low. Mrs. Nina got up, approached him,
delicately lifted his head and leaning over him so close that he felt her breath
inquired flirtatiously:
“Tell me honestly, do you find me undesirable or perhaps even revolting?”
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His face turned crimson. Again he was abruptly assailed by her beauty and
irresistible sex-appeal stimulated by the contrast of sensuality of her mouth and
nostrils and the coolness of her large green eyes.
“You are very beautiful,” he whispered in spite of himself.
She patted his hair and stroked his close-shaven cheeks.
“I’ve missed you terribly,” she whispered nearly inaudibly.
From the corridor came the loud footsteps of a servant. She straightened
herself and denoted:
“It’s hot here. Let’s go into the library. It’s always cool there.”
The library windows were covered with heavy damask curtains. One felt
comfortable and peaceful in its semi-darkness. She pointed to a wide cozy sofa.
Kolski pretending not to see her gesticulation took a spacious leather club chair.
Mrs. Nina was too experienced a woman to get distracted by a slight amiss. She lit
a cigarette and pacing about gave an account of her sojourn abroad. She recounted
her acquaintances, diversions and her thoughts, a lot of stuff to quote her. And that
she had recognized for the first time how much she longed for Warsaw. Her
narration was quite pleasing. The pale green dressing gown only enhanced the
marvelous curvatures of her voluptuous body. Kolski’s eyes, in spite of himself,
were riveted upon her on a par with his attention. Languidly she put aside the
cigarette and positioned herself on the club chair across its arm, and leaning on
Kolski’s shoulder proceeded in the way as if this pose was the most natural to her:
“Longing and nostalgia, the most distressing sentiments one can experience.
You are confused being thoroughly absorbed by challenges and strife, by the
environment and ennui of every day. Suddenly you are struck by a flash of light
and you see a face, eyes, a mouth and hands. And you can feel them real, almost
palpable, whereas your conscience becomes aware that everything that surrounds
you is indifferent, unimportant or even distasteful. Distasteful by separating you
from the hands, the eyes and the mouth you long for; while anguish and pain
cannot appease your heart.”
Kolski had completely surrendered himself to the suggestive words and to
the aura of the highly charged up, erotic tete-a-tete. In a flesh not only he recalled
the endless periods of unbearable hankering for Lucy, but at that very juncture was
overwhelmed by it. By Lucy’s kind heart, her warm, friendly eyes, her shapely
mouth which while speaking formed words out of the invisible substance, the
mouth which he has never kissed and probably never will. Presently the anxiety
lingered and a piercing heartache. How well Mrs. Nina expressed it. How
accurately, how overwhelmingly she defined it as if she had learned it from her
own experience.
He felt she was the only person in the world who truly held dearly,
identified with and shared his suffering. Hadn’t she from the earliest of their
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acquaintance stressed that a suffering soul could be appeased a hundredfold by a
true friendship, a kind word and all encompassing innermost affection, which in
itself with its unselfishness ought to allay and defray a large dose of one’s grief?
He must have been the last ingrate dope to doubt the sincerity of the words she had
conveyed that evening on the terrace, of sentiments which she presently so
candidly professed afresh, and to deny the sensibilities and the healing power in
her suggestions. He must be an addle-pated fool to refute, to discard the proffered
gifts of affection, of consolation bestowed on him willingly and unreservedly.
Without another word he stretched his arms and cuddled her in a delicate
embrace. As if waiting for it she slid unto his knees, gently and assuredly.
“Those were long trying days away from you, desperately pining for you,”
she unburdened herself in a low voice, with her cheek scarcely touching his
temple, “followed by excruciating lapses into vain illusions. Imagine me
daydreaming of you coming, realizing that it was absurd and idiotic, nonetheless I
held onto my reveries. They often quizzed me whether I was ill.”
She paused for a spell and added:
“I couldn’t comprehend what was befalling me. Who could have rightfully
surmised? There’s a long litany of words and allegories, but which are applicable
and proper to describe one’s feelings? It’s as if one utilizing all his senses
attempted to describe music; it’s impossible, by far impossible.”
“Yes, yes,” he consented, cradling her even closer.
Blood surged into his head as he felt the warmth of her flesh against his
body.
Their lips became united in one long, blissful, agonizing kiss, and it lasted
even as he got up and carried her to the sofa.
Since that day of couple of hours Kolski had spent with Mrs. Nina in her
library his attitude toward her had taken a radical transformation. He at that instant
trusted her implicitly. She loved him, truly loved him, whereas he himself couldn’t
fully reciprocate the sentiment. He in vain endeavored to recompense it at least
with some semblance of love.
In order to avoid suspicion they couldn’t indulge in too frequent encounters.
She usually came to his flat two times a week or rarely three times, but stayed for
long hours thus frustrating his contribution to the welfare of the clinic, though
understandably he couldn’t in fact openly complain to her. Besides, he was
clueless how to go about it. In time he impassively resigned himself to the existing
status quo, and grew more enamored of her. This close-knit bond became a very
effective medication, or at least an opiate which assuaged his yearning for Lucy.
He wrote Lucy as often as prior to his involvement with Nina. Presently though
while writing to Lucy he was touched by gnawing feelings of guilt, and
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unconsciously attempted somehow to expiate it in polite and proper wording of his
letters.
Though there were periods of time when love for Lucy overpowered other
passions. In such periods this sentiment took ascendancy even over his salacious
tryst. At any rate, this romance with Nina became a primary component of a
weekly routine, a natural necessity, a quota filled in one’s existence. And if once
in a blue moon Mrs. Nina missed the appointed hour, he grew restless and irritable.
Startled he came to realize that he was more jealous than he reckoned he ought to
be.
Finally the falling out between them had taken place on a certain Tuesday.
She supposed to come at six, and she was punctual like a Swiss watch. If she had
to cancel the date she had informed him ahead of time by a letter or a phone. This
time as it neared seven he phoned her. A parlor maid picked up the receiver. He
pronounced his name. He heard her on the phone:
“I’ll posthaste inform Madam, sir.”
The parlor maid knew him and perhaps had entertained the hint of intimacy
between him and Mrs. Nina. That’s why she had assumed that Madam would
never attempt to conceal anything from him. She spoke to him shortly:
“I’m sorry, Doctor Kolski; Madam is out. She went to Konstancin. I’ll tell
Madam that you’ve telephoned.”
He put down the receiver, convinced he had been lied to. The central
position of the telephone in Dobraniecki’s villa negated any doubt that the parlor
maid would not spot her mistress’ absence. Besides, she knew de facto that she
was in; after all, she had plainly stated that she’d inform her without delay. She for
certain had apprised the Madam and got instructions to lie to him about the trip to
Konstancin.
He was fulminating with rage. An arrant lie! In verity it meant only one
thing: another man. And why hadn’t she telephoned him in the first place with
quibbles about Konstancin? This way she’d have forestalled his call and thus
would have prevented the unmasking of her impromptu prevarication. In all
fairness she didn’t lack acumen and shrewdness to come up with a plausible
excuse.
The answer to the above had arrived sooner than he expected, in the form of
a message. In it were scribbled just three short sentences:
“I’m off to see Stephanie in Konstancin. She was inflicted with another
seizure. I’m very sorry I can’t be with you today-N.”
He reached into his pocket for some coins.
“At what time did you get this letter?”
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“At five o’clock, sir, although it was not given to me but to my colleague
who was to make another delivery, so he relegated it on me and didn’t hasten with
it thinking that it was not that important.”
After the messenger had left, Kolski reread the message and with disdain
tossed it away. The sliver of paper twisted in the air and fell down at his feet. He
scooped it up and tore it into small pieces.
“Well, dear Madam, we’ll see about that!”
He put on his hat and flew down the stairs. There were no taxi cabs
available in sight. When he had hailed one he recovered his equilibrium
sufficiently enough so that instead of giving Nina’s address he opted for the clinic.
They didn’t expect him at this late hour, and since none of the doctors was in his
office he collared two nurses having coffee and cookies with a youth unknown to
him. He was still filled with so much anger and desire for revenge that he roared at
them:
“I won’t condone libations in my office! Shape up or else?”
The frightened youth jumped to his feet and with a startling consternation
beheld his companions expecting an explanation from them, though the nurses
remained mute silent.
“Don’t you know,” he sharply addressed them, “that such conduct is
unbecoming to nurses? I won’t tolerate anything of the sort. It’s a breach of
discipline which ought to be severely punished. You are turning this clinic into a
place of orgy, as if it was a cheap joint. As long as I’ve lived I’ve never seen
anything so incongruous.”
“We are very sorry, Mr. Director, exculpated herself one of the nurses,
stammering in a faltering voice.
“This is not the time or the place for apologies. Get out of my office at
once.”
They took off in a hurry, jostling at the door. Kolski sat at his desk and
pressed the button. An orderly appeared.
“What the hell is going on here?” Kolski shouted. “Who’s on duty today?”
“Doctor Przemianowski.”
“Please ring him up.”
Doctor Przemianowski scared out of his wits ran inside. The details of Miss
Budzynska’s and Miss Kolpikowna’s indiscretion in Kolski’s office had spread
quickly so that Doctor Przemianowski at once came up with excuses:
“I swear I had nothing to do with it, Mr. Director.”
At the day Kolski had taken over Professor Rancewicz’s post he was
addressed as “Mr. Director.”
In general he was flattered by this extolling appellation, although officially
he was not entitled to it. This time he retorted in a severe tone:
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“I’m not a director, and you do know about it well. In my opinion you are
not interested much in the reputation of this clinic otherwise you would not
condone the scandalous behavior of certain nurses holding libations in my office,
entertaining one sorry looking dodo from town. I’m warning you that I’m going to
inform Professor Dobraniecki about this insipid fracas.”
“I was busy with an emergency on the second floor,” exculpated self the
young medic.
Kolski interrupted him, waving him off.
“I’m not interested concerning your explanation. Tomorrow enter this
unsavory spectacle into the personal files of these two nurses, with a rider that it
has taken place on your shift. That’s all.”
Just as Przemianowski closed the door, Kolski started to pace nervously
about. Every time he passed by his desk he reached for a cookie forgotten by the
nurses and thus absentmindedly ate them all; he pacified himself a bit, feeling
somewhat contrite. At the evening inspection he had informed Miss Budzinska
with:
“Please advise your colleague not to act so silly in the future. The entire illfated fiasco has been forgotten.”
He had repeated the same to Doctor Przemianowski; irrespective of the
above he exited the clinic in an irascible mood consumed by jealousy. On his way
home out of the blue a startling insight popped into his head that while telephoning
Nina Colonel Korsak had been with her. He could swear to it although he was
certain that this time of the year the colonel usually was on maneuvers in the east.
Back in his flat he had determined to resolve this conundrum one way or another.
He phoned the colonel’s apartment. In the receiver he heard buzzing tones. No
one picked up the phone on the other side. It was already past midnight and
apparently there was no one present there. He was about to put down the receiver
when he heard a half-asleep angry voice:
“Hello!”
“May I speak to Mr. Colonel?”
“To one hundred devils what do you want at this hour?”
Kolski swiftly replaced the receiver and began to deliberate what to do next.
How should he react to the self-evident fact of Nina’s double-crossing him?
Although he had no tangible proof he was satisfied with his supposition. On first
impulse he wanted to pen a long, sardonic letter, conspicuously offensive and
derisive. The baneful epithets, caustic metaphors and imprecations crammed his
head. Such a missive will serve well as an excellent tool of revenge.
On another hand, does a woman of Nina’s character, who cowardly and
despicably betrays her lover with whom she could at any time break off the
alliance, deserve revenge? As to her moral qualities he had no illusions. Now
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everything appeared so overtly plain. Nina had granted him the dubious, vicarious
role of a substitute lover during the colonel’s absence.
No, he should write a short statement without explanations and invectives in
an official, indifferent style, capped by a succinct proclamation ending their
romantic relationship!
He sat at his desk and jotted down:
“Dear Madam! Coinciding with the recent events I’m afraid I’m forced to
unconditionally sever my association with you. - J.K.”
He reread it and concluded it was not quite stringent. He tore it and
extracted a sheet of blank paper from the drawer.
“Dear Madam! From the first I have concluded that our illicit love fling has
served you merely as a capricious diversion. Yesterday you have irrevocably
terminated this farcical tryst for good. I readily accept your decision. Farewell!
J.K.”
Yes, it’s much better. It contains suggestive allusions, has style and signifies
indifference.
Still while professing indifference he was mortified by a gnawing feeling,
pondering through the night the fact that he had been rejected by one he loved for
the second time in his life. He had been turned down by Lucy, whom he loved
sincerely, loved for the first time in his life, and as he presumed for the last time,
and whom he desperately aspired to marry. What about Nina? She had
capriciously discarded him in favor of another. Submitted to two consecutive
rejections it was quite natural for him to lose confidence and to arrive to the
summation that as a man the best he could foresee in his future was a romantic
encounter by a lucky chance only.
“He was a dopey lover, an impromptu lover,” he mumbled dejectedly, “a
vicarious lover or one substituting the vacationing lover.”
His ego was profoundly injured.
“Why me?” he thought, standing in front of the mirror. “I’m young, strong
and good-looking. It’s true I’m not strikingly handsome, still I’m good-looking,
and I’m not a milksop. In addition, I’m a cerebral well paid professional with a
rising career to boot. It defies logic, why me?”
Despite of his ego he reconciled himself to an inevitable loss, placating
himself that for the time being he might miss Nina terribly, though not nearly the
way he missed Lucy.
In the morning leaving for the clinic he had charged the porter’s son with
delivering the letter. His schedule was unusually demanding. Both surgical wards
were utilized from eight in the morning till the late afternoon. Kolski performed
several operations himself and assisted Doctor Rancewicz. When he had been
relieved he found in his office a note informing him that Mrs. Dobraniecka had
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phoned numerous times. He squashed the paper and chucked it into a wastebasket.
Then an orderly brought his dinner. Kolski consumed it with relish, lit a cigarette
and stretched himself leisurely on the sofa. The clock chimed four times. He still
had half an hour for himself.
Someone knocked on the door.
“Come in!”
Nina entered the office.
He jumped off the sofa and reached for a jacket hanging on a chair nearby.
Nina looked radiantly ravishing. She defiantly peered into his eyes. She was
composed and staid like a statuette. Slowly she opened her handbag and took out
of it Kolski’s letter.
“What does it mean?”
He ogled the letter as if he had never seen it before. In Nina’s hand it looked
like a piece of dirty, odious substance which touching it one discarded it with
disgust. He shivered and turned away.
“Why did you write this incomprehensible letter?”
Kolski stared at her with bitter hatred in his eyes. He saw through her
clearly enough. This woman wanted to excuse herself of her opprobrious
comportment owing to the fact that he had no tangible evidence of her betrayal.
“There’s no need for further discussion.”
She pierced him with her intense gaze.
“I didn’t come to discuss.”
Kolski elected to ignore her.
“You’d better come up with the truth. Undoubtedly you have reasons for
sending this letter to me.”
“Indeed there had to be reasons.”
“Well, what of it?”
He bit his lips.
“You know the reasons better than I do. Don’t play a game with me. In any
event, I’ve made up my mind.”
She approached him and questioned him with a tinge of irony in her voice:
“How do you know that I came here to reconcile with you?”
Kolski was taken aback.
“That’s even better for both of us,” he mumbled.
“Perhaps, my dear, notwithstanding you have insulted me and I’m
requesting satisfaction in the form of an apology and explanation. You must not
refuse me that.”
“As you wish,” Kolski consented, not looking at her.
“Will you allow me to sit down?”
He pushed a chair forward.
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“You have a lover; I have no doubt about it.”
“Really, without a doubt,” she uttered lifting her eyebrows.
“Yes!” he erupted. “You betrayed yourself yesterday. When I phoned you
to find out why you were tardy for our date, the servant affirmed that you were in.”
“That’s what she told you?”
“Yes, in a way. That she was going to inform you right away. She came
back with a message that you were out. If you were out for real, she would have
told me about it in the first place. You were at home and not alone.”
“I was,” went on Nina rather unmoved, “and I was naive as not to instruct
my servants what they were supposed to tell you when you rang.”
He sputtered out derisively.
“You were not naive, by far. You’ve never expected a call from me. You
were certain your letter has reached me in time. Fortunately once in a while even
the most intricately contrived machinations fail. A small oversight by a messenger
and everything comes out into the open.”
Her features betrayed not even the slightest shade of consternation.
“What came out into the open?”
He erupted irascibly.
“There’s no point to continue. I don’t wish to meddle in your amorous
escapades. As of today I’m out of it.”
“What did come out into the open?” she stressed it again.
He lifted his head and looking straight into her eyes enunciated in the most
impassive tone:
“If you so wish, it has come out that Colonel Korsak happens to be your
secret lover, and that yesterday he was cozily ensconced with you.”
He vocalized it not only with absolute conviction but also with obstinacy of
the one being right. Unexpectedly Nina erupted into a long hearty laughter.
“Oh John, I’m flattered by your jealousy. Alas, in this instance your
jealousy is utterly baseless. I believe Colonel Korsak definitely would like to play
such a role, which you have already attributed to him, or at least to be on leave in
Warsaw and not at the strenuous military maneuvers near Lwow.”
Kolski shook his head.
“I’m afraid your laughter was not very convincing, given that Colonel
Korsak is not sweating on maneuvers; he is relaxing comfortably in Warsaw.
Yesterday he spent the entire evening with you. I have proofs in support of it.”
Mrs. Nina’s countenance altered into a genuine surprise.
“But that’s impossible. The other day I received a postcard from him, in
which he had apprised me that he’d return in four weeks or so. There has to be
some gross misunderstanding.”
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“There’s no mystery, nor misunderstanding,” he went on irately. “There’s
only the incontrovertible fact. Yesterday around midnight I phoned his flat. The
colonel responded angrily, being awakened.
“And you asked for a colonel, not by his name?”
“How many colonels do live there in his flat?”
She appraised him again, this time grinning impudently.
“Presently in his flat lives one Colonel Supinski.”
Kolski lost his composure:
“That’s easy to verify.”
“Undoubtedly,” Nina agreed. “There’s a telephone and a directory. Ring
him up, will you?”
Kolski grew exasperated.
“You think I’m bluffing.”
He dialed the number. He heard an unknown to him, not very refined male
voice, doubtlessly of an orderly.
“Hallo, is Colonel Korsak in?”
“No, Mr. Colonel is on maneuvers.”
“What about Colonel Supinski?”
“Colonel Supinski will be back around five,” reported the other.
Kolski mumbled thank you and hung up the receiver.
Nina airily lit a cigarette. Himself he felt as a blundering fool, worse, as a
jealous blushing schoolboy. In support of his suspicion he had two arguments.
The first one had dissolved into nothing. The second one was in itself potent
enough to convince himself of Nina’s infidelity. If indeed she hadn’t kept a
clandestine meeting with Korsak she had kept it with still another. He was dead
serious about it and would bet his life on it.
“Please press the bell,” Nina insisted.
He did as she had bidden him. An orderly opened the door.
“Will you kindly ring for my chauffeur,” she commanded curtly.
When the chauffeur had entered, she quizzed him:
“Mr. Pawlowski, perhaps you remember where I have forgotten my fox
shawl?”
“It’s not in the limousine, Mrs. Dobraniecka. And I didn’t see it in the
garage. And yesterday, Madam, you were not wearing it to the hairdresser.
Perhaps it’s in Konstancin.”
“Perhaps it is,” she interrupted him. “Please go there and fetch it. I’ll take a
taxi back home.”
“Yes Madam,” the chauffeur answered obediently and exited.
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Uneasy silence reigned in the room. Nina placidly finished smoking,
dejectedly extinguished the cigarette in an ashtray, got up and with an ugly smirk
on her face without another word directed herself toward the door.
She turned and looked at him with contempt.
“Nina!” Kolski cried out.
“What can I do for you?”
He felt guilty, humiliated, compromised and ridiculed to boot. He still
believed, more than ever, that she had betrayed him. Then again certitudes of such
kind evaluating them soberly represented nothing more than a typical hysteria.
Regardless of the above the twilight of the bedeviling suspicion still lingered
slightly atoned in the subconscious embittered by distrust and doubts. Perhaps it
had been an unsubstantiated figment of his imagination. He had insulted the
woman who, indeed, had humbled herself by giving herself to him. She indeed
had condescendingly humiliated herself. In all fairness to her with her social
standing, intelligence and beauty in reality she could have the choicest pick for her
lover. She ought to have slapped his face, ignoring his petulant jealousy.
Incomprehensibly to him she had deigned to come up with explanations and she
had done this in so cool and aloof manner it hurt more than a slap on the face. His
demeanor was inexcusably appalling.
“Nina,” he pleaded contrite, “I owe you an apology. I’ve behaved
atrociously. I had no justifiable excuse to offend you. Can you ever forgive me?”
She looked defiantly straight into his face.
“Oh, no, do not apologize yet. First interview the servants, investigate
exhaustively. Perhaps I’ve bribed the chauffeur and the colonel’s orderly? Hire a
detective.”
“Nina, please do not hate me,” he stammered compliantly.
Nina’s eyes cast bolts of lightning.
“By all means hire a detective. Hunt the low ingrates with police hounds.
Phew, I’m your lover not because I love you, but only because you so generously
condescended with your favors. Dear God, could one even dream to be so lucky?
On my knees I ought to thank you for being so fortuitous. Who else, indeed, in the
whole world would want me?”
He gently took her hand into his and pleaded submissively:
“Nina, please do not deride me.”
“I do not deride you. I deride myself, besides; I don’t find it funny soliciting
your affection, whereas you discard mine. But most of all it hurts me that you take
me for a coward and a liar. Just think for a moment what there is to stop me from
coming here to hurl straight into your face: ‘I’m tired of you. I love another!’”
“You are as usual faultless, dear Nina,” he acquiesced, covering her hand
with kisses. “Forgive me for acting like a jackass, for being so insanely jealous.”
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Melancholy set over her face.
“Of course I’ll forgive you, though I don’t know when. You do understand
why?”
“I understand.”
“I have to reconcile with myself first. Please do not phone me. Do not write
me, not until I recover my equilibrium.”
She kissed him lightly on the cheek and walked out.
On the morrow still beset by his obsessive jealousy and too vivid
imagination Kolski strove to disentangle self from the nasty predicament he had
only himself to blame for in the first place. On the second day he felt slightly
better, gratified that the disconcerting contention under the circumstanced had
ended benignly. On the third day early in the morning on the way to the clinic on
Napoleon’s Square, just off the Central Post Office, he stumbled at Colonel
Korsak.
He halted on the spot in shock as if one had conked him on the head. The
colonel also arrested his steps. He was not in a uniform, sporting a gray suit and a
hat. Over his left arm was slung a rain coat, whereas in his right hand he held a
traveling bag.
He cordially stretched his hand forth:
“My respects, doctor. What’s new in Warsaw? A heat spell, oppressing
humidity isn’t it?”
“Mr. Korsak. Aren’t you supposed to be on maneuvers?” was all Kolski
managed to come up with.
Korsak put a finger to his lips in a sign of silence.
“Pst! Pst! That’s a secret. I’m on a short escapade to Warsaw.”
“Well, of course cherchez la femme.”
“You are presuming too much, dear doctor,” the colonel roguishly winked at
him. “Alas, I’m going to say good-bye. I’m dirty as a dog wallowing in sand. I
badly need a bath.”
“Are you coming straight from the terminal?”
“Yes, I am,” replied Korsak. “Good day, Doctor Kolski.”
He causally tipped his hat and evanesced in the crowd. Kolski turned on his
heel and hailed a cab. He alighted at the Main Terminal where he with care
examined the time schedule. And indeed the colonel could have spoken the truth.
There was a train from Lwow which had arrived twenty minutes ago. Now he was
at a loss for real.
In the evening he was tempted to visit Nina. Eventually he opted to phone
Colonel Korsak. If the colonel was not in his place he in all probability had been
ensconced with Nina. Kolski had a surprise of his life as he heard the colonel’s
orderly booming:
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“Colonel Korsak is not in Warsaw. He’s on maneuvers. He’ll be there for
the full month.”
He had booked a room in a hotel, or to keep his present whereabouts from
others had instructed his orderly to say that he was on maneuvers. Unable to
withstand the suspense any longer he forthwith donned his favored suit and
stepped outside. Within twenty minutes he was in Frascati. He rang the bell.
The door was opened by a butler.
“Is Mrs. Dobraniecka in?”
“No, she’s out, Doctor Kolski. But she’ll be back momentarily. If you’d
like to wait, sir, please come in. There’s also Mr. Howe waiting.”
“Who’s he?” Kolski was taken aback by surprise. He had never heard that
name before.
“Mr. Howe is an Englishman.”
And indeed in the hall he encountered a very handsome youth with a pale,
dissipating countenance and a monocle in his left eye. Beholding Kolski he got up
slowly, lazily set firmly his monocle and with lethargic apathy pronounced his
name.
“What a dopey clown,” Kolski scrutinized him superficially noticing that the
slouching youth was attired in a tuxedo.
“What a scorcher today,” he articulated affably.
Mr. Howe mumbled twisting the corners of his mouth which resembled a
polite grin.
“Sorry, I don’t speak Polish.”
By the way he wasn’t fluent in French either, so that their dialogue turned
neither interesting nor animated. Besides, they had nothing in common to chat
about. At any rate, Kolski was apprised that the Englishman was on his holiday
trip in Warsaw, mixing freely business with pleasure. He was about to journey
home. Kolski was also told that Mr. Howe had no friends or acquaintances to
speak about in Warsaw aside of Mrs. Dobraniecka whom he had met on the French
Riviera. Both of them were saved by the sound of a bell announcing the mistress
of the house.
Nina was neither surprised nor angry by Kolski’s appearance. She was in an
exquisite gay disposition. Kolski had never seen her so radiant and vivacious in
the past. She looked at least ten years younger. She greeted the effeminate youth
in English, exchanged with him a cursory courtesy sentence and turned to Kolski:
“I hope you two were not bored with each other.”
“Sorry, my English is very limited,” Kolski exculpated self apologetically.
“What a pity. Excuse me, I must refresh myself.”
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One more sentence in English, a friendly grin and Mrs. Nina vanished into
the bowels of the villa, whereas the two gentlemen happily contributed alike
compliments praising the beauty and charm of their hostess.
She reappeared in a stunning creation of an evening dress. In concert with
her the door was pushed open into the dining room. The table had been laid out for
four persons. As they took their places, Mrs. Nina said to Kolski in Polish:
“Your suspicions became miraculously incarnated. You are a clairvoyant.
Korsak has arrived today. He has phoned me and invited himself to supper. I also
telephoned you doubting you’d relish playing the role of a chaperone. With you
being out I had to improvise with the help of Mr. Howe.”
On that note she handed Mr. Howe a salad bowl and initiated the
confabulation in English. Kolski couldn’t shake the irritable sensation that Nina
repeated word for word to Mr. Howe what she just had told him, exploiting the fact
that the gentlemen didn’t understand each other.
If that was the case Mrs. Nina didn’t have much fun toying with them;
Colonel Korsak showed up and joined in fluent English. Kolski had accurately
deduced about the hotel, considering that Korsak was attired in the gray suit he had
worn in the morning at Napoleon’s Square. He excused his appearance and
bantering with Nina ate with ravenous appetite. He was at ease, in an excellent
effervescent spirit, although Kolski noticed his growing hostility toward the
Englishman. He spitefully slighted him, replied curtly and tritely with reluctance.
When Howe leaned over talking to Nina, Korsak addressed Kolski.
“Who the hell is this English whey-faced weakling?”
“I’ve no idea. This is the first time I’ve laid my eyes on him.”
Inquisitive as always Mrs. Nina overheard them. She elucidated:
“Mr. Howe is on holidays. He’s a very nice young man, perhaps a bit
unique in his fawning demeanor.”
Korsak knotted his eyebrows.
“Unique? There’s no fawning but nonchalance in his comportment.”
“Oh, what kind of opinion is that, madam?” Howe frowned interrogatively,
rather perplexed.
“Colonel Korsak perceives but nonchalance in your flattering posture.”
“He’s a good judge of characters. I hide flattery under the mask of
nonchalance. If I wished to accord properly the level of my adoration for you,
madam, I would sound ridiculous and boring with my proclamations.”
Kolski didn’t understand him. He doubted that the Englishman had offered
anything remarkable, on the other hand, the way he amorously ogled Nina troubled
him. This way only a lover eyed his compliant paramour.
The coffee was served in the living room. At this juncture the colonel
overtly bristled with his antipathy toward Mr. Howe. Even toward Nina he grew
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cold and impertinent. He chattered with Kolski as if he had been his best friend,
intentionally neglecting the rest of the company. Kolski was only pleased by the
turn of the events. From time to time he cast a surreptitious glance at Mr. Howe.
At eleven Korsak rose intending to bid good night to the hostess. His
comportment of the loftily raised head and the rigid stance denoted something of
an injured pride.
“You are not leaving, are you?” Nina queried him not hiding her
disillusionment. “The last train does not depart till one thirty.”
“Well, I wanted to see a friend still tonight.”
“Please colonel, sit down,” she repeated this so emphatically that Kolski
almost jumped up in consternation, whereas the Englishman ostentatiously reached
for a magazine from a side table, leafing through it.
After a long pause the colonel relented.
“Ah, if you so wish, madam.”
He had seemingly surrendered himself to Mrs. Nina’s pleading. He sat
down and pretending to be in a humorous mood, added:
“But I expect to be remunerated with another cup of coffee.”
“You’ll receive it in a flash,” she said, getting up to fulfill his request.
Kolski was fuming inside. He hadn’t rose in indignation only not to look
utterly ludicrous. Rashly he had devised a scheme, a little scenario of his escape.
He’d glance at his watch and verbalize: “I envy you all, yet my obligations are
forcing me to forsake your lively company. I’m incumbent to be in the clinic early.
That’s the curse of being a doctor.” Then he’d get up and bid them good night.
Alas, he had succeeded only with the first part of his plan. As he had
reached for his pocket watch, Mrs. Nina had turned to him with a bewitching
smile:
“Ah, dear doctor, I’ve forgotten all about it. There are some papers sent by
my husband relating to the clinic management. They are in the study. You’ll find
them on the desk, in two large manila envelopes.”
Detracted of his little stratagem Kolski grunted and rose to his feet.
“I suppose I’ll find them.”
When he had disappeared behind the living room door which led to the
study, Mrs. Nina owned up in English to the two others:
“I’m not certain he’ll find them. I think I put them into a drawer. Will you
pardon me for just a minute?”
She rapidly traversed the living room. In the study Kolski in vain attempted
to locate the not existing manila envelopes.
In a gesture evoking conciliation and forgiveness she extended her arms
toward him.
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“Please do not desert me right now. They are both in love with me ready to
create a scandal.”
He regarded her severely.
“They are in love with you, whereas you are in love with them. The plot
thickens. Really, it gets too complicated. Whom do you truly love, Nina?”
“You do know very well whom do I love, don’t you?” she declared, raising
her eyebrows. Before he had a chance to reply, she had clasped her arms tightly
round his neck and covered him with kisses.
“Now you do know whom, that’s in whom,” she ejaculated with passion. “I
intended to punish you on account of your ugly mistrust in my constancy by not
seeing you for a week. But I’m only a woman. Today I already telephoned you
and tomorrow I’ll visit you again at your apartment. Now please go back and
pacify the antagonists. I don’t fancy my home becoming a site of a vulgar affray.
I’d be compromised forever. You can appreciate my position, and I implore you
on my knees. Remember, you are the only person I can turn to. Please do not
refuse me. Please go!”
As he wavered, she added:
“I must rearrange my hair and makeup, and to calm myself a bit. I’m still
blushing.”
Kolski retracing his steps back suffered in his mind:
“What a refined devil of a woman of cunning and deceit, or an exceedingly
long string of incomprehensible circumstantial coincidences aligning against her.”
To his surprise the two gentlemen in the living room were amicably
twittering. Apparently the social etiquette had neutralized their mutual antipathy.
“If only they were mindful of the fact,” Kolski mused conceitedly, “that the
object of their fight belongs to me.”
He couldn’t dwell on the above much longer because Nina gracefully
ambled in. The palaver in English ensued afresh, animated at times in which on
account of his handicap Kolski couldn’t participate.
At a certain moment Mrs. Nina consulted her watch and stood up:
“I’m not going to keep you gentlemen any longer. By the way Mr. Howe
drove in his automobile and volunteered to give you a lift.”
“Thank you kindly,” the colonel scowled awry, “I’m going to take a stroll.
I’ve still half an hour and the night is so beautiful.”
They all wished Mrs. Nina good night and left together. And indeed at the
villa gate was parked the Englishman’s machine. He jumped into it and
precipitously drove off. Korsak and Kolski went toward Three Crosses Square.
They ambled unhurriedly in silence. Abruptly by Bracka Street the colonel seizing
Kolski’s arm stammered through his clenched teeth:
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“If I had not been pressed by time and hadn’t sworn to my divisional
commander on my honor that I’d show up on time, believe me, I would whip that
gigolo, that perverted, effete milksop, with my riding crop.”
He released Kolski’s arm and they resumed their amble.
“Do you think, colonel, that Howe is her lover?”
The colonel had a paroxysm of laughter.
“You are a very naive fellow. Do I believe? There’s no doubt about it.
They are lovers and she’s scared to death.”
“Scared of him?” Kolski mumbled in a broken voice.
“I’m certain of it. I was invited to have supper with her. Meanwhile that
whey-faced monkey dragged himself in and she didn’t chuck him out. Why?
Perhaps she was afraid of losing him. Such international slickers, effete or not,
have their way with women, dear doctor.”
He angrily sputtered as an afterthought:
“Foul pig!”
The streets were deserted. The gas lamps had been already extinguished.
Suffering from heat and humidity the whole day it was a pleasant relief to
perambulate in the cool of the wee hours, although Kolski’s thoughts were on other
matters.
“According to your deductions, colonel,” Kolski put forth, “one ought to
suspect you being her lover.”
The colonel beheld Kolski as if he were a madman.
“People waste their time turning over in their heads irrelevant inanities with
no germane connection to anything instead of tackling more palpable, pertinent
aspects of life. I assure you, doctor, the maneuvers will eventually end, and God
have mercy on that creep if I still catch him in Warsaw. You are a swell guy,
believe me. The maneuvers we’ll be over in a fortnight and we will have a barrel
of fun together. Do you play bridge?”
“Yes, but I’m not good at it.”
“You’ll learn. Now I must say my farewell, otherwise I’ll miss my train.
Cheerio!”
Kolski turned toward his apartment building. He felt as if he had been
dragged through the mud, though strangely enough his disgust was not leveled
against Nina per se. He adjudicated her to be a simple, shallow, ignoble creature of
which one shouldn’t expect much, particularly the answerability for her risqué life
style. It seemed to him absurd even to attempt to punish her for her action; how
does one go about punishing a cat or a dog for filching a piece of meat forgotten on
a kitchen table?
“A kitten, a wild, cunning little kitten with primitive instincts,” he thought.
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Admittedly he was exhausted, morally that is, which bordered on ennui and
self-revulsion. How could he let himself drag into this morass? How childishly
incredulous he was? Fool, blame no one but yourself for wanting to believe her!
He was not angry with her, only with himself. It was a painful and a learning
experience for the future: Stay as far away as possible from women of spurious
reputations.
Late at night he wrote Lucy:
“It has occurred to me now that one can wade through muck and mire and
come out clean and become better and purer than one was formerly. I’d appreciate
to hear your opinion on that. Only recently I’ve comprehended the intrinsic
meaning of the parable of the prodigal son, and the innermost feelings of loneliness
of Maria Magdalena who appears to me more holy than let’s say Saint Teresa. I’m
so tired physically and spiritually. I need a respite of both. I’ve also missed
terribly conversing with you. I use your photograph in lieu of yourself so that
when I write to you or peruse your letter I can behold your lovely face and the
most beautiful eyes in the world.”
Writing to Lucy soothed his nerves to such an extent that when he was
falling asleep he thoroughly reconciled with himself. Everything flustering that
had transpired from far back up till now became a vague, remote, uninteresting
story, as though it had been related to him by an indifferent party a long time ago.
At that juncture he felt himself being removed from it by hundreds of miles. He
had washed Nina so thoroughly out of his hair that it hadn’t even dawned on him
to inform her about it. That’s why when at five p.m. the bell had rung in the
anteroom; he had not expected to behold Nina’s face while opening the door. He
had been overtly surprised by her visit, which she had misconstrued or had
pretended not to pay attention to it.
She stretched out her arms toward him.
“I can’t express enough how grateful I’m to you for yesterday’s evening.
You can’t imagine how trying it was to me. I’m still jittery and appalled by their
ungentlemanly spectacle.”
She entered the living room and inertly flung herself on the sofa. Attired in
a sleeveless white cotton dress with a shallow cleavage she resembled a beautiful
naive but spirited girl. She wore no makeup or very little subtly applied, so that
her bronzed skin, the blue shades under her eyes, brows, eyelashes and lips were
very natural in coloring.
Kolski with incredulity studied her; not a care in the world in her features.
He strove to equate the images he beheld with the summary of conjectures to
which he had arrived yesterday.
“Darling, will you light a cigarette for me?” she broke the silence, detecting
restlessness in his posture. He stole for time to figure out how to deal with her and
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what strategies to employ. He with utter indifference handed her a packet of
cigarettes and a box of matches, taking a seat across from her, still without offering
one word.
“Well, Johnny, how did it all end yesterday? I pray they parted without
fisticuffs.”
“There was no affray.”
“You can’t believe how relieved I am. You are a real man, and it’s
comforting to me that I can infinitely rely on you.”
Again there had been a long pause before Kolski ventured in a solemn,
rational voice:
“Nina, please hear me out. I have to talk to you concerning a very
consequential matter.”
“What? What it’s all about?” she intoned in an inquiring but rather
indifferent tone.
He shook his head.
“Are you for real, Nina? It was happening all the time only I didn’t perceive
it. Then abruptly I saw through it all.”
Her features tensed.
“Oh, Johnny, please, you are not going to hurt my feelings,” she bewailed
ruefully.
“In the end I have figured you out,” he continued. “I saw through you. I
won’t bore you with homilies and moral chastising. Firstly I don’t feel justified to
do so. Secondly it will change nothing. You are a mature person, an experienced
woman. You know very well what you want from life and you live it your own
way.”
She got up and moved toward him the way as if she had wanted to sit in his
lap:
“Please, I’ve not finished yet.”
“Can we put it off?”
“No, Nina, we can’t. You see, Nina, I’m also a mature person and have my
own standards and views on life and morality in particular. I pray you won’t find
my moralizing too unreasonable or too idealistic. I will confess to you that since
the beginning I have been baffled by what have propelled you to a romantic liaison
with me, to be frank not a very much interesting or captivating object of admiring.
For certain I don’t hold qualities and properties you seek in a man.”
“Do you intend to break up with me?” she bemoaned desperately.
“Not break up. Why use such words? For the time being we were thrown in
together by the incomprehensible whimsy of fate, or perhaps by our obsessive
libido; an absurd alliance from its inception as I perceive it. I’m not blaming you
or accusing you myself being the guilty party. Wouldn’t it be ludicrous for me
214
who have bereaved your husband of your affection and trust, which were duly
owed to him, to berate you from the pulpit only owing to the fact I wanted to
monopolize my claim upon you? That’s why I propose we part amicably without
recriminations. Not as a pair of good friends; rather as two human beings who
have perpetrated an egregious mistake and without reproaches move separate
ways.”
“I’m not going to exonerate myself,” Nina bristled defensively, “neither to
make excuses. Though I’m going to emphasize to you one point you’ve somehow
missed in your sudden resolution. Have you taken under consideration my feelings
for you and the subsequent ramifications of your action? According to you we are
going to separate amicably. What about me? What about my feelings? What about
my sorrow?”
He lifted his eyebrows.
“Your sorrow, you are not serious.”
She pretended she hadn’t heard him and went further:
“You think that by avoiding chastising and vituperation you are saving me
from embarrassment, whereas on the contrary you deeply offend me. If you were
truly loyal and retained at least a modicum of affection for me you would never
suggest a separation for I’m not the one you expected me to be. You would
demand that I amend my temperament and become the worthy object of your
adulation in accordance with your criteria. You ought to reprimand me: ‘I see you
err, going astray. I’m going to help you. I’ll stick by you. You can depend on me
now when you need me most.’”
He shook his head.
“No, Nina, it’s too late. You’ve wholly misunderstood me. I want out not
on account of your infidelity but because I’ve suddenly recognized what a
despicable role one plays being a married woman’s lover. How erroneously we’ve
mistook our tryst for love, whereas your husband would qualify it as nothing else
than adultery.”
“My dear, you are offending me with cheap shots.”
Until now he had striven not to affront her personally.
“That was not my objective at all.”
“You are very kind.”
They both went silent. Nina smoked her cigarette and Kolski played with a
key ring he held in his hand.
“You ought to act like a man,” she declaimed emphatically.
“And what way do you suggest?”
“Firstly you’d insist I sever my connections with others.”
He moved his head from side to side.
“You still don’t get what it’s all about?”
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“I want to understand, trust me.”
“In the first place I don’t believe you can ever forfeit your ways of living.
One’s predilections and habits are not acquired incidentally. They become an
inherent segment of one’s nature and character, although that’s not what I’m trying
to convey to you. Even if I thought you could give up Korsak, the Englishman and
others I still couldn’t continue seeing you. I don’t wish to insult you the least.
You are an accomplished woman, witty, charming and dazzlingly beautiful.
Parting with me will not diminish your qualities and allure. It will even enhance it.
I’d go thus far as to hazard that you don’t need me.”
She interrupted him:
“Do you believe that for real?”
“If you do feel slighted and that perhaps I’ve stigmatized your pride by
severing the ties with you, I assure you I don’t see this as my victory; on the
contrary as my defeat. I’ve lost the game. I’m attempting to cleanse my soul of
guilt, whereas you remain unaffected the way you’ve always been. You have
nothing to reproach yourself with, myself on another hand…”
Nina raised her head high.
“There’s one thing more. Do you love another?”
At first he didn’t grasp the gist of her question.
“No, no, Nina. Oh God, how far we have drifted apart.”
She rose and slowly put her gloves on.
“Well,” she blurted out chagrined, “there’s nothing for me here to do aside
of bidding farewell.”
She stretched out her hand which he kissed in silence. She slowly moseyed
toward the door. Opening it she turned and appended:
“Basically you are a good boy.”
Before he had time to reply, she had traipsed out.
Three weeks later as he was finalizing his evening patients’ tour on the
second floor, an orderly had informed him:
“Mr. Kolski, Mrs. Dobraniecka requested to see you.”
He surmised that something indeed extraordinary must have taken place. As
he entered the clinic director’s office he was horrified by her appearance. She was
pale with large dark spots under her eyes, and trembling.
“For goodness sake what has transpired?” he cried out.
She spoke in a shaking voice:
“It’s my husband. He’s much worse.”
“Is he back from Marienbad?”
“No, I received a letter from Doctor Hartmann. He writes that they
discovered a growth on my husband’s brain. It’s now only a question of time, a
month or perhaps only a week. It’s terrible…terrible…”
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For once she was not putting on an act. Her despair seemed genuine. Kolski
was struck by the distraught demeanor of his ex-lover. Was it possible that Nina
had betrayed her true feelings? She did care for her husband, perhaps even loved
him in her own way.
He bent over her.
“Nina, do not give up,” he reassured her in consoling words as a doctor to a
patient. “Similar diagnosis proved to be innocuous. Anyway, growths can be
removed surgically. I doubt whether in Marienbad they know much about these
things; Marienbad is just a tiny resort village.”
She wiped her tears.
“I guess you’re right. Jerry wants to come home and he, naturally, can’t
travel alone. He requires a proper medical support. Will you be able helping us?”
“What kind of question is this, Mrs. Dobraniecka?”
“Doctor Hartmann suggested moving Jerry as soon as possible. Lordy!
Lordy! That’s what frightens me out of my mind, the haste.”
“Do you have Hartmann’s letter with you?”
She shook her head.
“There’s not much medical data in it. If you deem it essential I’ll bring it to
you.”
In an instant he had decided to get personally involved.
“No, there’s no time for that. I’m going to notify Doctor Rancewicz. How
quickly can you get ready for departure?”
“I’m ready the way I am.”
Next morning Kolski and Nina took a train to Marienbad.
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CHAPTER XV
Prior to Professor Dobraniecki’s installation in the clinic, the entire corridor
“B” on the second floor had been evacuated so that the gravely ill professor was
assured the absolute quietude. The doctors likewise as the nurses and the orderlies
in that section wore cloth coverings on their shoes and conversed only in whispers.
In the farthest room in the corridor with its windows shaded there was a
perpetual semi-darkness, considering that the patient was adversely affected by
sound and light. He endured an excruciating pain under his skull, which was
impossible to allay even with large doses of pantepone or morphine. He was in a
nonstop care of doctors for twenty-four hours a day. Apart from them his wife
vigilantly stood by him.
Whenever she had left her seat, the professor at once complained of her not
being there. His health was gradually deteriorating, pulse weakening, pain
increasing and tears rolled down his cheeks necessitating wiping of his face. At
times his face relaxed a bit as if pain had subsided, but only when with
incomparably acute hearing he unmistakably discerned amidst soft footsteps those
of his dear spouse. Every time she took her place at his bedside, he held her hand,
closed his eyes and daydreamed or whispered to her endearing words how
beautiful she was, how much he loved her, that he lived for her only and that it
would have been easy for him to part with this world if it had not been for her, for
he couldn’t and desired to never forsake her.
He also experienced losses of consciousness, usually at night. Afterwards he
shook uncontrollably, retching and coughing, which was aggravated by an
agonizing pain and delirious ravings.
Mrs. Nina was losing her inner balance. None of her acquaintances could
have imagined her in the present state. Without makeup, hair not cared for, with
large dark spots under her eyes she dashed to and fro as one possessed. While
previously she had looked inordinately young for her age, presently she didn’t even
remotely resemble her usual self.
“Look, she’s taking it so hard,” everyone repeated. “That’s true love.”
Alas, they all were mistaken. Mrs. Nina was distressed on another account.
She perceived only too well the dire consequences in the event of her husband’s
demise. From the time he had taken over the clinic in the aftermath of Wolf’s
resignation, their financial status had improved drastically, although they were still
under obligations of mortgages and other debts. Her husband’s death would drive
her into an abysmal poverty and with it loss of prestige and social standing,
comfortable living, her beauty and success with the other sex. At any rate, she was
nearing forty and only due to perseverance, sacrifices and expensive treatments she
219
was able to preserve her good looks and the figure she had been blessed with in her
youth. Presently every time she faced the mirror she could only despair. She was
fully aware of it that she couldn’t count on new amorous adventures in her life and
that her sex-appeal would drastically diminish with Jerry’s death. She was coveted
by the other sex providing that she was well made up, taken care of and well
dressed, untroubled and rested. Woe betides a woman who’s poor, tired and
negligently dressed. No man in his right mind will turn his head ogling her.
That’s why as she passionately and imperiously exhorted her husband:
“You must live, Jerry! You will live!” in reality it meant: “I’ll live only if you’ll
live. With your death I’ll be dead too.”
The most renowned specialists, foreign and national were summoned, each
paid generously by the clinic. Every other day they held counsels at the bedside of
the stricken professor.
Their prognostics were not optimistic. They couldn’t have been. The
growth under the skull slowly but gradually spread through pressing on the spinal
cord and the cerebellum. The end was just a question of time. During the final
conference they had concluded that the breadth of the tumor rendered it inoperable.
The famed American surgeon, Professor Doctor Colleman, who had interrupted his
Riviera vacations hurrying to the aid of his bedridden colleague, explicated at
length to Dobraniecki at his insistence to learn all the facts, come what may:
“I cannot operate for I see no purpose in it.”
Dobraniecki whispered:
“I’ve known this all along; one chance perhaps in a hundred.”
“One chance in a thousand,” Colleman amended.
Still on that very afternoon Mrs. Dobraniecka had been apprised by
Professor Colleman’s final prognostications. She bestirred herself to act. There
was a slim chance, one in one thousand, notwithstanding a chance. She pleaded
with Professor Colleman till he had relented though unwillingly.
“Yet I’m going to emphasize the purposelessness of our attempt. The
operation will only speed up by a week or ten days the professor’s demise. If you
still insist, Mrs. Dobraniecka, I will perform it, however I doubt your husband will
agree to it. He knows by now the debilitating state of his health and he’s too
experienced a surgeon not to determine that the scalpel is of no use in his
predicament.”
Thus the American presented his pessimistic evaluation.
While the preparations for the surgery had been set into motion, Mrs. Nina
initiated afresh pleading and coaxing her husband into agreeing to it.
He categorically refused again and again.
Appealing, beseeching and crying had won her nothing. On the contrary it
only angered the ill who bewailed bitterly:
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“Do you want to bereave me of the few remaining days of my life?”
“Jerry, please...” she broke into tears.
“You are tired of taking care of me and want to get rid of me.”
Obviously this had put an end to her remonstrations. She sat at his bedside,
defeated and resigned. The professor had slept peacefully through the night, and
when she came in the morning, inquired:
“Has Professor Colleman departed already?”
Nina stirred in anticipation.
“Yes, he has but will stop in Vienna. We can cable him there.”
“No, no.”
Pausing he added:
“There’s only one man who is apt to save me, though I think he’d rather
murder me.”
“Whom are you talking about, Jerry?” Her eyes opened wide.
“Can’t you guess, of Wolf of course?”
She felt a sharp stab in her heart. He had spoken the truth. They couldn’t
expect help from Wolf, ever. Yet contrary to her waning confidence, no matter
how completely she comprehended that there was nothing in this world with which
she might attain Wolf’s compliance, she grabbed with both hands the last thread of
hope.
“Jerry, would you agree on an operation performed by him?”
“Definitely,” he answered without hesitation. “But it’s pointless even to talk
about it.”
She erupted feverishly excited:
“Perhaps it’s not pointless. There’s no harm in seeing him.”
“He’ll never agree.”
Mrs. Nina wouldn’t surrender without putting up a fight. She exited the
patient’s room. Incoherently she quizzed the first orderly she saw:
“Where is...where’s Doctor Kolski?”
“He’s upstairs in the surgical ward, madam.”
“When he finishes his operation please inform him I’m anxiously awaiting
him in his office.”
Kolski was shocked to the core by Nina’s suggestion. He also was of the
opinion that Wolf would have nothing to do with Dobranieckis. He doubted even
whether he would ever put his foot in Warsaw.
“I’m begging you, please write to him or send a telegram. I can’t do that
myself, you understand why? It’s not my pride preventing me, no; he will chuck
my telegram into a wastebasket, without opening it. On another hand, he has
always been fond of you.”
Kolski shook his head.
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“My entreaties will gain us nothing, I’m afraid.”
“I beseech you, please write to Doctor Kanska. He’s supposed to be in love
with her, and won’t decline her request. You told me once how kind and solicitous
she was. We are begging on our knees to have mercy for a dying man. She won’t
refuse us. I’m quite certain she won’t.”
Vacillating, uncertain, Kolski unwillingly acquiesced, despite conviction
that the telegram would further alienate Lucy toward him. Together with Mrs.
Dobraniecka he formulated the text of the telegram.
In the clinic they with anticipation awaited the reply. Mrs. Nina periodically
checked with Doctor Kolski whether he had received an answer. The telegram
arrived shortly as on cue. Kolski opened it and read it aloud:
“Professor Wolf has been inflicted with paresis of his left hand. He cannot
undertake such a complicated operation. Lucy.”
Mrs. Nina inertly sank into an armchair.
“Dear God!”
Abruptly she sprang up.
“It’s a lie, an excuse, I’ll never believe it.”
She seized the telegram and shaking it violently sputtered feverishly:
“It’s so crystal clear to me now. That’s a clever prevarication. Good grief
that man has no feelings. What can I do? What can we do? How can we persuade
him? I’m totally convinced he’s safe and sound and perhaps now is even laughing
himself to tears, gloating that his adversary is dying. That paresis of his hand is
just a very convenient alibi.”
Kolski shook his head.
“I don’t think so, Miss Lucy could never stoop so low to invent a lie, and
Professor Wolf even more so. He could have informed us that he was urgently
needed in his clinic.”
“What do you think? What is it all about with the paresis?”
“I’m afraid it’s true.”
Mrs. Nina began to sob. Kolski with commiseration beheld her disheveled
hair, red face and eyes swollen from crying. She looked revolting, pathetic and
ludicrous. For years she had lied to her husband and cheated on him behind his
back, whereas at that very minute pretended to be utterly aggrieved, as if she had
been the most faithful and loving wife. He, incomprehensible to him, all of a
sudden felt sorry for her. As to Dobraniecki’s case he had been convinced that it
had been already a foregone conclusion sharing Professor Colleman’s odds of one
in a thousand. Well, he had witnessed several miraculous surgeries, where
Professor Wolf’s lancet had never failed to find that one fortuitous chance out of
the thousands.
He reread the telegram.
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“Paresis, not paralysis,” he thought. “Besides, not necessarily both hands
are required in operations. The trepanation of the skull can be performed by any
assisting surgeon; a trifle in itself. The principal object is the removal of the
growth. Perhaps this can be done with one hand or even through supervised
instructions.”
Kolski had witnessed in numerous instances Wolf’s uncanny instinct of
orientation in the limited space of the operating field. That instinct had never
failed him. And the very branching of the growth, as numerous complications in
the past operations, will to Wolf be as familiar as other routine stumbling blocks.
“Mrs. Nina,” he put in confidently, whereas Nina at once stopped crying as
if expecting good tidings. “I believe that even if Professor Wolf’s hand is
handicapped by paresis he can still perform the operation.”
“Can he? Dear God! Are you sure?”
“I am.”
“Will we manage to convince him?”
Kolski slightly nodded his head.
“Himself a surgeon he knows perfectly well that with the aid of the team of
his assistants, with whom he used to work for so many years and trusted
unreservedly, he could successfully perform that operation.”
“But can we compel him?”
“No, no one can force his hand, perhaps if he was asked?”
“Well, let’s send forthwith the second telegram.”
Kolski shook his head.
“That won’t work with Wolf.”
“Dear God what shall I do?” she tightly clenched her fists.
Kolski responded:
“I think the only way for you is to see him in person. He may think nothing
of it if you honestly ask his forgiveness, although one can never be absolutely
sure.”
Mrs. Nina sprang up.
“Is there still time to go over there to the province and bring him with us?
Perhaps it’ll be too late?”
He spread his arms wide.
“That no one can guarantee.”
“You’re right,” she agreed agitated. “We’d better not lose even one minute.
I’m not even going to pack. I’ll travel the way I am. I don’t care either way.
Please, just find out when is the earliest train.”
“I suggest you should take a plane to Vilna and from there you’ll hire an
automobile which we can book by telegraph, so that you’ll drive directly from the
airport to Radoliszki without any delay thus shortening the trip by several hours.”
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“You are so very businesslike. You’ve figured everything out like the snap
of a finger.” Kolski didn’t answer. He had figured it out already several times; in
his expectation of Lucy inviting him for a short visit.
Mrs. Nina was no less surprised when he recited from memory the plane
time schedule of leaving Warsaw and arrival in Vilna.
“It’s so helpful that you remember these things. I’m so impractical on my
own to take care of it. I’m half-conscious and deadbeat.”
Abruptly she seized his arm.
“Johnny! Johnny! Will you come with me?”
Kolski slightly paled.
“But that’s impossible,” he stammered, “I can’t simply desert the place.”
“Why not?”
“We are very busy. The clinic is overcrowded. I’m needed here.”
“Forget the clinic,” she exclaimed peremptorily. “I’ll arrange with
Rancewicz to let you go.”
Kolski’s countenance tensed.
“This is not about getting permission from Doctor Rancewicz. I can’t so
irresponsibly burden my colleagues with extra work, whereas I’ll be touring far-off
provinces.”
She peered at him reproachfully.
“How can you call a trip the object of which is saving the life of your boss a
touring junket?”
Kolski lowered his eyes and went silent. It was with Lucy on his mind he
was apprehensive to accompany Mrs. Nina to Radoliszki. He knew that Lucy
detested and abhorred the mere sight of Mrs. Dobraniecka. He also had deduced
that she must have suspected him, on the basis of their correspondence, being
romantically involved with Mrs. Nina. If he appeared in Radoliszki together with
Mrs. Nina, it would just sway the scale of Lucy’s assumption. Furthermore, he
would be adjudicated as Dobraniecki’s ally, the role he resented. Even sending a
telegram to Lucy had been a sacrifice on his part. Lucy had replied in a dry,
unemotional, strictly businesslike style, without attributing a single word to him.
She hadn’t even included a customary greeting in the P.S.
“Your husband’s secretary can accompany you,” he put forth.
She shook her head.
“No, no, this won’t do. I need you with me. In all fairness to you it’s not
your presence I need on this trip.”
“I don’t get it?”
“You are their friend. Your persuasion will be much more effective than
mine.”
“I doubt it.”
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“I’m begging you we mustn’t miss any opportunity, any trick which may
positively influence Wolf. For heaven’s sake, are you refusing to help me? I’m
not expecting you to grant me a favor and I’m not forcing your hand availing
myself of our former intimacy. This is not about me, it’s about my husband.”
It was pointless to stall much longer.
“Well, we are bound to reach the airport in half an hour. From there we’ll
send a telegram.”
“Thank you, Johnny,” she extended her hand toward him, while her eyes
again welled with tears.
In an hour they were seated in an airplane which easily lifted off the tarmac.
The day was typically autumnal. Over the airport hung low dark clouds and it had
been drizzling on and off since early morning. The plane made a large circle
climbing through the thick layers of clouds. Inside there was a dark, twilight zone,
though within a minute or two they saw the glowing sun on immaculate blue
firmament, and below a stilled ocean of white, woolly mounds and copses, a
boundless expanse on which streaked along the shadow of their very airplane.
In the mill no one had expected visitors from Warsaw. There were no
callers, period; it was raining cats and dogs the whole day and none of the patients
dared to stick one’s nose outside. Even Yemiol had canceled his habitual daily
session at the Radoliszki inn. He was mad, cursing and mumbling under his
breath. Donka was checking up on the sick in the hospital ward, Lucy was
daydreaming, and Wolf was not socially predisposed either. He closeted himself
in his room, enjoying a book.
After dinner he excused himself under the pretext of being exhausted and
retired early. Yemiol replicated his example. Lucy deemed it propitious to go
over the invoices and bills. As a rule she locked the front door, at this hour of the
day very rarely anyone might show up.
Afterwards she put aside her pen and sank into a deep reverie. She noted an
acute depression constraining Wolf, however today no one exuded much mirth and
merriment. Nonetheless the professor was in an unusually melancholy spirit. She
recalled seeing him in an identical dejected mood in Warsaw. He inadvertently
had recollected one or another tragic episode of the past. She doubted they had
been induced by Kolski’s telegram; intuitively she sensed that the Kowalewsko
ball had instigated it. Although for her the Kowalewsko ball, discounting an
unpleasant altercation with Jurkowski, will forever remain a delightful event to
reminisce about.
She came to understand that Wolf’s attitude toward merriments was
diametrically opposed to hers. As she had danced, naturally enjoying herself, she
had discerned his disapprobation. Not a reproof in the strict meaning of the word
or a condemnation, perhaps a sort of disappointment. Perhaps she had been
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disporting herself too exuberantly. Perhaps she shouldn’t have dragged him
forcefully to that ball in the first place.
Though in earnest, she shouldn’t reproach herself for being too selfish. She
had had scarcely any fun even before she had quit Warsaw; and one having been
bereft of diversions expected condescending and indulgence from others when for
once in a period of countless months one lost oneself in merrymaking.
Contemplation upon the above theme had engendered a pensive, languid
mood. She got up. She opted to finish the billing tomorrow, placing invoices and
forms inside a drawer.
At that very juncture a bright streak of an automobile light fell on a window.
From the mill direction an automobile was slowly approaching.
“Who can it be at this hour?” Lucy became curious.
The whirring of the automobile engine pierced through the din of heavy rain.
The automobile came to a stop at the veranda steps, and one minute later there was
a knocking on the door. Because the anteroom was dark Lucy unhitched a lamp
from the ambulatorium and thus holding it aloft opened the door.
At first glance she hadn’t recognized Mrs. Dobraniecka. She inquired:
“Are you with a patient?”
“Have I changed so much?” went on the visitor. “I’m Nina Dobraniecka.”
Lucy cringed taking one step back. Blood surfeited her head. Before she
recovered she had spotted Kolski standing one step behind Dobraniecka. She
collected herself in time.
“Please, come inside.”
She placed the lamp on the table and stood there rigid, her lips tightly set
and her fists clenched. Dobraniecka’s sudden appearance she had taken as an
arrant act of defiance and cynicism. It awakened in Lucy a potent feeling of
belligerence of the past.
Mrs. Nina stretched her hand forth.
“Won’t you even shake hands with me?” she pleaded humbly.
Slightly hesitating Lucy touched the tips of Mrs. Nina’s fingers, though with
an overt expression of disdain. In the corresponding manner, impassively she
stretched her hand to Kolski. Not wishing to disturb the professor she took them
into the ambulatorium, and closing the door behind she demanded impatiently:
“Haven’t you received the telegram?”
“We have, but...” initiated Dobraniecka.
“You have wasted your time coming here. I can repeat exactly what’s in the
telegram.”
“Is the professor in? We must be back at the airport in two hours.”
Lucy shrugged her shoulders.
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“And who’s stopping you? I’ll reiterate again, you can’t disrupt the
professor’s peace and quiet. It’s already late. The professor is resting following a
long day’s work, and I won’t disturb him on your behest.”
Dobraniecka shuddered.
“I appeal to you, Miss Kanska. The life of my husband depends on it.”
Lucy’s eyes narrowed.
“What about then when you and your husband had no need of Professor
Wolf, did you accord him at least a spark, a tiny spark of empathy? What an
impudence to barge in! What gall and cheek to intrude on the man you have
wronged, banished from the Capital, deprived him of nearly everything and all but
morally assassinated him! Yes, that was you! You and your husband were behind
the conspiracy which enmeshed and strangled the professor, and now you are
appealing for mercy. I tell you, Professor Wolf has learned all about your vile
campaign against him. Still I’m appalled how come the vengeance from heaven
didn’t strike you earlier? Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? Where’s your badge of
honor? In light of all what you have done you intended to consult the professor
face to face? You are a creep, an animal, even lower than an animal to plead for
the professor’s help having caused him so much grief.”
Mrs. Dobraniecka desperately gripped her head in her hands, moaning
quietly:
“Dear God...Dear God...What can I do?”
Kolski stood there tacit, pale as a wall, his hands resting on the backrest of a
chair. His eyes had never left, even for a second, Lucy’s face. He heard not one
word of her homily, becoming intoxicated purely with her sight.
“You are too disgraced to cross the threshold of this house. Everything
about you revolts and insults. I tell you, you came here in vain, I even loath the
hideous look of your contrite face. There’s no way you’ll see the professor.”
“I’ve never imagined you being so cruelly vengeful,” whispered
Dobraniecka.
“I’m not vengeful. It’s fate being vengeful, not I.”
“For goodness sake why are you forbidding me seeing the professor? Is that
of your intransigent spite you are so inflexible?”
Lucy beheld her contemptuously.
“Not vengeance, not spite. No, no. I tell you what the professor told me
yesterday. That he wouldn’t refuse helping even the most heinous criminal in the
land.”
“Yet he refuses to help us.”
“He can’t help you simply owing to his physical impediment. I won’t
trouble the professor now. I won’t even mention to him that you were here. I
don’t want to upset him on your account. Whereas you with your innate greed and
227
envy, will never understand his noble plateau of limitless kindness, of generosity
and sacrifices of his magnanimous soul, who was so despicably stabbed in the back
by you. I can see perfectly through you. You have arrived here since you didn’t
believe me. I wrote the entire explication in the telegram. You thought I used a
ruse, a quibble, didn’t you? You thought about my big lie, didn’t you? That
perhaps Professor Wolf wished to inform you that he would help you with
everything in his power. I’m not obliged to justify to you anything, yet I’m going
to enlighten you in details. You were mistaken. Recently a rabid dog bit the
professor on his left hand. Despite of several operations and other treatments his
hand wobbles uncontrollably. Now you do believe me why the professor cannot
save your husband?”
Mrs. Dobraniecka wished to add something. Lucy cut her short:
“I won’t suffer even one word coming out of your foul mouth. Admit it,
didn’t the most opprobrious and hideous calumnies issue from your mouth?
There’s no use for procrastination. You can leave now and allow us to erase you
and your spouse from our memories.”
Dobraniecka abruptly threw herself at Lucy’s feet.
“Pity, have pity on us,” she bewailed, sobbing fitfully.
Lucy, implacable, didn’t stir.
“Please get up! It’s a sordid display.”
Turning to Kolski she enjoined him in an imperious fashion.
“Will you pick up Mrs. Dobaniecka?”
Kolski helped Mrs. Nina to her feet and led her to a chair. She was still
weeping and for several minutes endeavored to speak through fits of whimpering:
“You judge me...too severely...too harshly. Perhaps I deserve it all? I will
endure humiliation and disdain... all that you can dish out at me… though please
do not refuse us to see the professor. It’s imperative I see him!”
“Tell me, what for?” Lucy curtly cut her off.
“Doctor Kolski contends that the professor’s handicap with luck can be
circumvented. That with the assistant’s aid the professor would be able to perform
the operation with one hand.”
Lucy pursed her lips.
“It only proves how wrong Doctor Kolski is in his assumption.”
“I’m awfully sorry, Miss Lucy,” Kolski spoke up for the first time, “but
indeed I’ve said that and I don’t throw empty words into the wind. The operation
can indeed be performed.”
Lucy shook her head in disagreement.
“I cannot accept your assertions for the professor only yesterday averred me
that it was beyond him to undertake such a complicated operation.”
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“I wouldn’t myself either,” Kolski stated matter-of-factly. “Yet if I were the
very man who might prevail I would have tried. I’m certain that Professor Wolf, if
he has no other reason for objection, will support my position.”
Lucy angrily cast her eyes at him. She was inordinately offended by his
very presence there. She inferred that he had come here of his own, taking
advantage of the situation without even informing her beforehand.
“Do I also have to elucidate this to you?” she stressed the words ‘to you,’
“that the professor took no other factors into his consideration.”
The door creaked in the anteroom followed by the sound of footfalls of one
wearing slippers. They all went silent. The footsteps neared the ambulatorium.
The streak of light under the ambulatorium door unmistakably pointed out where
the agitated confrontation had taken place.
The door opened and in its frame loomed the square shouldered figure of
Professor Wolf. He wore a robe over his pajamas. Looking around, blinded by
light, he faced them:
“Miss Lucy, what’s going on here?”
Before he received an answer his eyes had rested on Kolski’s face. He in
that instant also saw Dobraniecka and instinctively winced.
Dobraniecka rose and stretched out her arms toward him.
“Mr. Professor! Help us! Please, I beg you, sir. I came here to plead for my
husband’s life.”
Wolf was rendered speechless. The sight of that woman shocked him to the
core. In one short while he relived the memories of those agonizing months, when
she had directed a vicious campaign of besmirching his name, stirring the public
against him, the campaign in which she had not been too particular in choosing
ways and means.
“I beg for mercy, Professor Wolf. You are our only savior.”
Wolf turned to Lucy:
“You did wire the cable, didn’t you?”
“Yes, professor, I did.”
“We received it today in the morning,” volunteered Dobraniecka.
“So if you have received it,” Wolf interrupted her, “you do comprehend that
there’s nothing I can help you with.”
“But you can, Professor Wolf. You can.”
Wolf stirred impatiently.
“I imagine how trying it is for you, madam. Please calm yourself. I assure
you, and believe me you are in the presence of a doctor, an honest doctor. I cannot
operate owing to the fact that it’s physically impossible for me to do so. I assure
you that to me there’s no difference whom I’m ministering the aid. If someone
attempting to kill me gets gravely injured I’ll still treat him as any other patient. I
229
gather it’s not easy for you to believe given that your moral standards differ from
mine. If you still doubt my words perhaps this will alter your mind.”
He extended his left hand which shook quite visibly.
“As you can see, I’m an invalid. If the forthcoming surgery is so
complicated that the most skillful and renowned specialists judged it inoperable,
how can everybody expect me to go through being thus incapacitated? I’ve never
performed miracles. As a surgeon I’ve been successful relying on knowledge of
anatomy, long practice and self-confidence acquired with it and by the certitude of
my hands. And even then you quite openly undermined my abilities. How can I in
my handicapped predicament yield to your begging?”
For a while he had held his hand stretched out in front of her eyes before he
slowly turned aiming for the door.
Dobraniecka clenching onto Kolski’s arm lamented pitifully:
“Doctor Kolski, please stop him!”
“Mr. Professor!” ejaculated Kolski.
Wolf stopped with one hand already on the doorknob. He looked back.
“What can you add, doctor? To a prominent surgeon that should be indeed
self-explanatory.”
“Professor Wolf. I totally agree with you that you wouldn’t be able all by
yourself perform this operation or even a less complicated one. I contend though
that under your strict supervision with your diagnostics and instructions this
challenging operation could be performed.”
A faint smile adorned Wolf’s face.
“And you sincerely believe that an operation per procura can be successfully
performed?”
Kolski didn’t let up.
“I read that once a sailor in the middle of the ocean amputated his mate’s
leg, having no knowledge of anatomy or medicine, directed by a surgeon’s
instructions he received through the wireless. By the way that very operation was
successful.”
Mrs. Nina was still softly weeping.
“I beseech you, Professor Wolf...I implore your conscience,” she stammered.
Wolf struggled within self. His face tensed, eyebrows became tautly creased.
“I concur, in surgeries which are not too complicated, with a dose of luck it
may come off all right. Now I’m putting it to you, Doctor Kolski, do you really
believe with your hand on your chest that in our situation a similar method may be
employed?”
“No, sir, I don’t. I believe that this operation will fail. The condition of the
patient in my view is hopeless. Still...”
He was interrupted by more pronounced crying of Mrs. Dobraniecka.
230
“Still,” he continued, “my belief or disbelief cannot change the fact that
there is a slim possibility of saving the life of our patient. Professor Colleman
defined the odds of one to one thousand. If our patient has faith in you, convinced
that only you can overcome the odds of one in one thousand, you ought not to turn
him down.”
Wolf slightly overcome by the gravity of the above statement transfixed his
eyes on Kolski’s face.
“Why are you so certain on my infallibility?”
Kolski retorted hastily:
“I was your student, sir.”
The silence reigned in the room.
Incontrovertibly Kolski’s words touched Professor Wolf profoundly. He
walked to the window and stared at raindrops streaking down its black pane.
Outside by the veranda gleamed red the rear light of the automobile, illuminating
with its faint hue the mud stained registration plate.
Wolf spoke up without turning:
“Miss Lucy, will you be so nice to pack my traveling bag?”
“I’m going, sir, right away,” she put in submissively.
As she reached for the door knob she heard an outburst of crying. Mrs. Nina
fell to her knees.
“Thank you, dear professor. Thank you from the bottom of my heart,” she
was babbling while attempting to seize his hand.
“Please, compose yourself, Mrs. Dobraniecka,” he becalmed her in a
soothing voice.
“I’ll never forget this till I die.”
He impassively waved his hand.
“Please will you get up and sit down.”
Turning to Kolski he pointed to a shelf on the wall.
“Dear colleague, there you’ll find valerian drops.”
Kolski put aside a hat which he had been holding all this time in his hand,
looked among diverse bottles and flagons and finding the right one counted out
thirty drops into a glass, added water from a carafe on the table and handed it over
to Mrs. Nina. Wolf, all that time, appraisingly regarded Kolski. He patted Kolski
on the back and pronounced:
“Indeed you were my student and I’m very proud of you.”
Kolski blushed.
“Believe me, Professor Wolf. I do not deserve this compliment.”
Wolf apparently didn’t hear these words seemingly preoccupied with his
own thoughts, which had to be exceedingly taxing, as his deeply furrowed
231
forehead could testify. At one point he peered intensely into Kolski’s eyes whose
glare denoted inflexible resolve.
“You have persuaded me, doctor,” he interpolated, “I’m going though under
one stipulation.”
Kolski slightly wavered.
“I presuppose Mrs. Dobraniecka will agree to any stipulation.”
“Anything you say, Professor Wolf,” avowed Mrs. Nina.
Wolf ignored her.
“It’s an imposition upon you, Doctor Kolski.”
“Upon me?” Kolski was taken aback.
“Yes, and I maintain it is sine qua non.”
“I’m at your service, Professor Wolf.”
“While I’ll be going to Warsaw, you’ll function here in my place. I can’t
abandon, and you’ll agree with me, my patients. Doctor Kanska is an internist and
with lots of accidents in the area we need a surgeon, too.”
Kolski stood there frozen still like a statue, his face white like a wall. The
unexpected proposition fell on him like an avalanche of happiness which exceeded
his wildest imaginations. He was ordered to remain in the clinic together with
Lucy, to behold her every day, to work with her as a team like formerly in Warsaw.
Even in his most audacious dreams he had never expected that much. He was fully
alive to agree to the professor’s stipulation when he abruptly had been assailed by
apprehension: “What Lucy’s reaction will be? Will she treat him as a meddlesome
interloper? Will she typecast him as any cunning trickster? He was under the
impression that she had counted him by the very association with Dobraniecki as
one of Wolf’s enemies, and thus prejudicing herself against him. The initial
euphoria of being with her was likely to turn into the most harrowing experience
for both of them.”
“I’m afraid,” he ventured timidly, “I cannot stay here.”
“Why not?”
“In Warsaw in our clinic we are swamped with patients. I ought to be there
of necessity.”
“Didn’t you relegate your duties?”
“Yes, but Doctor Rancewicz gave me only a two day’s recess.”
“Dear friend, I don’t think it’s a cogent argument for you.”
“Yet on the other hand...” stuttered Kolski.
“I’m not in the habit of twisting your arm, doctor. From what Doctor Kanska
has apprised me, you have written her how much you would like to visit her. At
any rate, I cannot withdraw my request so you had better reconsider it wisely.”
“There’s nothing here to reconsider,” Mrs. Dobraniecka jumped off the
chair. “Doctor Kolski’s arguments are specious to begin with. I’ll arrange
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everything accordingly with Doctor Rancewicz. I can’t foresee even the slightest
problem. Besides, I’m astounded you being so restive, particularly knowing how
much in love...”
“All right, all right,” Kolski quickly interrupted her. “I’ll do it while the
professor is away.”
“Everything is settled, doctor,” Wolf said with finality in his voice. “You’ll
relish for a week or so a bit of Spartan life. You’ll lodge in my room, and please
use whatever you need. I imagine you didn’t bring any things with you.”
Kolski shook his head.
“No, I didn’t.”
“I’ll ask them to send you the stuff.”
“I’ll take care of this,” interjected Dobraniecka.
“Anyhow, you’ll learn something about our local traditions, and you’ll have
a breather although the weather is rather uncooperative.”
Kolski hesitated.
“Well, what is it?”
“If you could, sir, inform Miss Lucy that it was your own initiative and your
own precondition for my staying here in your place.”
Wolf responded a bit puzzled.
“If you so wish.”
Mrs. Dobraniecka impatiently consulted her watch.
“I’m so afraid to miss the plane. The roads are barely passable in this rain.
We must depart the earliest as possible, provided if it’s agreeable with you,
Professor Wolf.”
“I’m going to dress at once. We can leave inside of ten minutes.”
He went to his room where Lucy was finishing with packing. He helped her
to close the suitcase.
“I’d say you are disappointed in my decision, Miss Lucy. Please, put
yourself in my position. What would your decision have been?”
“I really don’t know,” she went on thoughtfully, “how would I have acted in
corresponding circumstances. But if I had to save a man of Dobraniecki’s ilk I
wouldn’t have moved one finger. A rat like him deserves no pity. The sooner the
world gets rid of him the better.”
“You are too arbitrary and omnipotent in your argument.”
“Omnipotent?”
“Yes, by usurping yourself the prerogatives of the Last Judgment. Though
while you so strictly adhere to your uncompromising tenet, why don’t you employ
the other notable one: compassion? Besides, we cannot debate it due to the lack of
time. Now I’m going to get dressed.”
“I hope you won’t be retained in Warsaw for long.”
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“Oh no, not one hour longer than it’ll be necessary. Aha, so you won’t get
bored to death and you’ll have help, Doctor Kolski will replace me while I’m
sojourning in Warsaw. In fact it was my unconditional provision. He was
disinclined at first though eventually had to agree upon the force of my arguments
and Mrs. Dobraniecka’s pleading.”
Lucy, puzzled, stared at him with her eyes wide open.
“If he didn’t like it why have you insisted on it? I can get by quite well all
by myself, and Doctor Pawlicki drops in practically every day.”
“No, no, not that frequently,” Wolf gently amended Lucy’s statement.
“Still I don’t see the point...”
He interrupted her:
“We’ll discuss it another time. Will you let me to get change?”
When she had exited, he rashly dressed and shortly appeared in the
anteroom, cloaked, with a suitcase in his hand. In succinct sentences he reminded
Lucy on certain important aspects upon the clinic affairs, courteously kissed her
hand and exited onto the veranda, where Mrs. Dobraniecka had been anxiously
awaiting him. Under the deluge from heaven they seated themselves in the
automobile. It was of heavy make, perhaps a bit outdated yet solidly built,
comfortable inside, and equipped with an excellent set of shock absorbers. Muddy
highway or not they rode with adequate speed. The experienced driver dexterously
avoided large puddles and the more hazardous potholes.
Mrs. Dobraniecka attempted to draw Wolf into an interlocution. He
discouraged her attempts with reluctant monosyllables. As she persisted broaching
other subjects, he eventually told her:
“Please, madam, I’m very tired. I’d like to doze off.”
She took the hint and had clammed up for the rest of the ride.
But as far as it went as they were still on the Radoliszki bumpy tract, dozing
was out of the question, though as soon as they turned onto the highway Professor
Wolf leaning back closed his eyes and slumbered for more than one hour. They
arrived at the airport with time to spare, enough for Wolf to write Lucy a lengthy
telegram in which he quoted the items he had forgotten to inform her ahead of his
departure.
It took them three hours to reach the Warsaw airport, Okecie, from where
they made a beeline to the clinic. Professor Wolf deferred for a while with leaving
the automobile, which pulled up along the stairs of the building. The heartrending
emotions drained him of energy. The beloved sight of the clinic which he had
erected with his own hands and had built into a thriving enterprise caused a painful
stab in his heart and a lump in his throat. He entered the edifice with his head bent
low and perfunctorily directed himself to his old office. Mrs. Dobraniecka who
had gone ahead of him had informed the staff of his arrival. Before long everyone
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in the clinic heard the news no one believed in. Wolf was welcomed by
Rancewicz, Michalowski, Kotkowski and other doctors. They surrounded him,
shook his hand, still incredulous to believe their own eyes.
His action was so extraordinarily unselfish and charitable, so outlandish and
incredible that it smacked of a dramatic play. Is there another human being in this
world so magnanimous as to defy with a superhuman effort his natural instincts
and emotions?
When in the morning they had found out of Mrs. Dobraniecka’s and
Kolski’s trip to Radoliszki they all had shaken their heads. Not one of them even
for a moment had entertained the notion that those on their mission might succeed.
Only Doctor Rancewicz had been of another opinion. He knew Professor Wolf
longer than anybody else.
“I tell you, people change. Perhaps he also has changed. If he has not we
can count on him.”
And he had added introspectively:
“Can he help us being here? Or will he arrive on time? Dobraniecki might
not survive another day. And as I’ve said, the operation itself one may compare to
a lottery without a winning ticket.”
And indeed in the past twenty-four hours the condition of the patient had
further deteriorated. He was periodically losing consciousness, and each time he
had regained it he had been stricken with painful fits, moaning and grunting until
he had lost his voice. Also radical changes had manifested selves in the
psychological system, namely disorders in his sight and hearing. He had
complained of darkness while the room was awash in light; he couldn’t recognize
even those standing near his bed. At the moment when he had lost his hearing he
adjured them to speak to him louder.
Prior to visiting the patient Professor Wolf held a long conference with
Rancewicz and other doctors who had treated Dobraniecki. They presented Wolf
with an exhaustive, diligently prepared case and its symptoms, together with the
summary of analysis and opinions of specialists. He affirmed that they hadn’t
omitted one thing, even those seemingly irrelevant or which had never been
explained. Benefitting from the abundance of data and clues Professor Wolf
gradually formed his own opinion on the condition of the patient and on the illness
itself. The enclosed diagnosis and prognostications of miscellaneous consultants
and experts seemed to be correct. The growth located in the area of the cerebellum
(according to Professor Colleman between the cerebellum and the brain cortex)
was engendered by the degeneration of tissue of the brain membrane or the
meninges.
Rancewicz also supported the above, supplementing that even Dobraniecki
himself had diagnosed that the growth was located in the area of the pineal gland,
235
which he had based on account of anomalous reaction to his metabolism, whereas
at the beginning, he, with other doctors had blamed it on his liver dysfunction.
“I concur,” admitted Wolf. “Dobraniecki was right. Liver dysfunctions are
often evincing acutely as the secondary symptoms affected by inadequate secretion
of the pineal gland. If indeed the tumor has spread itself there it will pose an
exceedingly daunting problem, which is further complicated by the fact that it also
presses against the corpora quadrigemina. Without doubt this pressure impairs
sight and hearing, whereas at the same time it thrusts itself under the cerebellum as
well. From the above we can deduce that the growth spread itself entwined in
various directions.”
He reassessed the above in a church like silence, broken by Rancewicz.
“Is it advisable in a current state to operate?”
“I’m not certain, first I have to examine the patient.”
Dobraniceki was semi-conscious. Wolf in an instant perceived still another
symptom of the malady which had been overlooked by the others: the dilated
pupils. It gave basis to the hypothesis that the secretion of the pituitary gland was
also diminished, which in effect stimulated the adrenal gland. That logically led to
the stipulation upon the size of the tumor, which by squeezing through the bridge
disrupted the function of the pituitary gland. It also indicated that the
acquaeductus sylvis was compressed and the connection between the third and the
fourth chamber had been slightly severed.
Following further deliberation and ascertaining that Dobraniecki’s heart beat
was fairly strong and his blood pressure stood above one hundred it had been
agreed that the operation ought to take place immediately.
The news spread through the clinic like a house on fire. Since Professor
Wolf being handicapped couldn’t operate himself, it had been agreed that Doctor
Rancewicz would perform it assisted by Doctor Hennenberg from Poznan, who by
coincidence was sojourning at that time in Warsaw.
The operation was set for ten o’clock in the evening. In the meantime
Professor Wolf, Doctor Rancewicz and Doctor Hennenberg closeted themselves in
the anatomy cabinet. There Professor Wolf put forth his hypotheses with the aid of
a brain model about peculiarities and the presumed shape of the tumor and its very
position. Obviously until the time of opening the cranium Wolf’s postulation
represented just a speculative supposition. However both surgeons wouldn’t miss
one word for they implicitly relied on Wolf’s expertise resulting from a lifetime
practice and his stupendous, incomprehensible intuition which bordered on genius.
“That’s about the size of it,” Wolf ended his lecture. “I’m afraid there will
be only a slim margin of success. Several cuts, to be strict eight or nine, have to be
done relying only on the sense of touch.”
“Is that a comforting assertion?” Rancewicz twisted his mouth awry.
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Hennenberg rose to his feet and pushing a chair aside intoned:
“I vote against the operation.”
“I do not agree with you,” Wolf shook his head from side to side.
“But that surpasses human skills.”
“Tonight, dear doctor,” Wolf interposed gravely, “we must find in ourselves
superhuman skills. As I can see it, the patient won’t survive another day. We are
risking nothing. I wouldn’t be a proponent of this operation if I wasn’t assured that
by removing the tumor we could save the life of a dying man. Not only saving his
life but granting him full recovery. Gentlemen! We are presented with the
procedure of removal of a tumor. It’s just a surgical treatment. I concede that it
will be quite a formidable task to perform, perhaps the most challenging task we’ll
ever encounter. Yet we cannot give up for it irrevocably will spell a death
sentence to our patient.”
“You are right, Professor Wolf,” Rancewicz seconded the notion. He also
stood up consulting his watch. “I vote for the operation although I’m not
confident, by far, that it could be done.”
He patted Hennenberg on the back.
“Cheer up, dear colleague, have faith. In our corner we’ll have a counselor
par excellent, Professor Wolf. If in the course of the surgery we stumble on
something unexpected we’ll posthaste get the proper advice.”
Punctually at ten Dobraniecki had been wheeled into the surgical ward and
anesthetized. Professor Biernacki assisted by Doctor Zuk performed the opening
of the cranium. Just as the trepanation of the skull had been completed, Professor
Wolf, flanked by Rancewicz and Hennenberg as on cue entered the ward. Nearby
almost all doctors of the clinic staff gathered together. Professor Wolf approached
the operating table and bent over the open skull.
All seemed to indicate how remarkably accurate had been his diagnosis.
In place of the removed occupital bones there were exposed the semispheres of the brain: two white large layers of the parietal lobes densely covered
with a bluish maze of blood vessels, and from under it protruded a gray mass of the
cerebellum with a swelling in the middle of it evenly bent toward the spinal cord.
The swelling was induced by a bulky not designed by nature growth inside of it,
which squeezed out the brain fluid. The professor straightened himself up, set
firmly his face mask and signaled Rancewicz and Henneberg, after which he
stepped back and took his position alongside Doctor Zuk who was in charge of the
cardio-pulmonary system. From there he could clearly observe the integral part of
field of the operation and evaluate every move of Rancewicz’s and Henneberg’s
hands.
There were the first clinks of metal instruments on a glass plate. The
operation had commenced according to the schedule.
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In the deathly silence the long, thin fingers moved with meticulous
precision. Nickel-plated lancets reflected bright light. The eyes of everyone
assembled in the operation ward were focused on these very masterful fingers.
Minutes were passing unnoticed.
Gradually beneath the uplifted brain lobes the tumor began to appear violet
and yellow on its edges.
Next the rubber-gloved hands of Hennenberg lifted the lobes gradually,
inching upward tracing the progress of Rancewicz’s lancet. Until now Professor
Wolf’s hypotheses had been one hundred percent on the dot. Indeed, the growth
pressed on the cerebellum, particularly with its outshoots which grew thicker
toward its center. The core of the tumor was located somewhere between the
corpus collosum, cerebellum, pineal body and the four gray lobes of corpora
quadrigemina. What had not been learned yet was how far the tumor spread itself
under the both brain lobes.
From time to time the surgeon’s eyes looked up to meet Wolf’s, who
encouraged him in a stifled voice:
“Good, good.”
The operation proceeded accordingly. Rancewicz inched his way cautiously
since each move and cut had to be carefully considered and executed. In the thirtysecond minute the inert body had violently stirred. One incautious touch of
Rancewicz’s lancet had effected an involuntary reaction of muscles. For a split
second everyone in the operating room was seized with terror, whereas Rancewicz,
unnerved, interrupted the procedure. The brain surface was unscathed, and a tiny,
innocuous misstep which otherwise would have been discounted broke the
surgeon’s concentration, diminishing his confidence in himself.
They all noticed it, without exception. The motions and cuts of the lancet
separating the tumor from the brain became less fluid, less assured and more
hesitant. Perspiration covered Rancewicz’s brows. He vacillated and paused just
as the most perilous phase of the surgery was near at hand. The clarity of the field
of the operation was by now not existent. All understood with a terrifying
foreboding that within minutes it would end in tragedy.
Doctor Hennenberg shot a frightful glance at Professor Wolf. On the gray,
furrowed surface of the cerebellum grew the offshoot of the tumor, not unlike the
tongue of a reptile which head was hidden under the brain and out of sight.
Abruptly Rancewicz straightened himself up, spread his arms wide in
desperation and bewailed:
“I can’t do it! It’s beyond me!”
“But everything is going splendidly, doctor,” Wolf prompted in an assuaging
tone. “Next you’ll separate the upper lobe to reach the spinal cord.”
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The authoritative voice appeased Rancewicz’s nerves, and he picked up the
lancet again. In the fortieth minute another unconscious shudder of the patient
shattered for good Rancewicz’s confidence. He winced, shook his head without
uttering a word, forfeiting his abilities to continue.
“It’s humanly impossible,” one of the doctors commented.
“Yes, it’s finished,” sibilated Hennenberg. “Close the skull.”
“No, keep it open!” They heard a sharp, husky baritone of Wolf.
Before they figured out his intentions, Professor Wolf had taken
Rancewicz’s place and with a lancet in his hand bent over the open skull. They
couldn’t believe their own eyes. Not minutes ago they all had witnessed the
professor’s left hand wobbling uncontrollably. Though presently with assured
motion it seized the end of the tumor and held it firmly, whereas the other hand
with its large, clumsy looking fingers performed swift and skillful cuts.
Apparently under the pressure of the inner will the hand dithering ceased or
subsided.
Most of those in the surgical ward were well acquainted with Wolf and had
seen him operating various times. They identified his masterful modus operandi.
The large bear like hands obstructing the view of the open skull were digging in
the white and gray brain substance as if squashing and kneading it. It was a
miracle that while doing it he didn’t scratch or cut its surface.
The minutes were passing inexorably though now each was as long as a
century. The attention of those present shifted from Wolf’s hands to his halfclosed eyes and his ruffled brows and face taut in concentration.
Somewhere below a clock struck eleven times. A small metal spoon was
inserted under the cerebellum, probing with imperceptible drive the reach of the
tumor, seemingly forever. Shortly after, the spoon fell noisily on the glass plate to
be substituted by a narrow knife with a short blade.
All those present there held their breath. Unexpectedly on the white spinal
cord appeared drops of semi-transparent fluid. They assumed that now Wolf
would interrupt the operation. It was self-evident that somewhere the brain
membrane had been cut through.
The professor proceeded unperturbed.
“He must have seen it,” Rancewicz and Hennenberg suffered in their minds.
The heat issuing from glowing fixtures became unbearable.
Subsequently Wolf inserted two fingers between the spread brain spheres
and slowly extracted from under it the tumor that resembled a sea star violet in
color with yellow edges.
Professor Biernacki handed over a magnifying glass, and Wolf scrupulously,
inch by inch, scrutinized the edges and the surface of the cut out tumor. On its
239
surface there were scratches and cuts, though he determined that the tumor had
been removed entirely with none of its tissue left embedded in the brain.
“You can close the skull,” he stammered in a hoarse voice.
The head nurse approached with a glass jar with formalin.
The professor extended his left hand to drop the tumor into the jar; he
missed and the bluish specimen landed on the floor. The professor’s left hand
began to wobble again.
Doctors Biernacki and Zuk performed the final phase of the operation.
Wolf, without a word, directed himself to the cloakroom where he collapsed into a
chair. He was exhausted beyond description; his nervous system strained to a
breaking point. The surgery lasted two hours. Rancewicz, Hennenberg and others
came in. In silence they took off their white aprons, coats, gloves and masks.
Hennenberg aided Wolf with his clothes.
Having a short respite Wolf descended the stairs and strode stiffly into his
old office where the others had been awaiting him.
Doctor Biernacki voiced his concern:
“Will the patient survive, Professor Wolf?”
“I can’t answer that yet,” responded Wolf.
“But the operation went well.”
“Yes, theoretically, although I’m not entirely certain that there were no
damages to the surface of the brain. That’s one. And second was the operation
perhaps performed belatedly? We can’t be absolutely sure until the patient comes
out of anesthesia.”
He turned to Rancewicz.
“Naturally you’ve prescribed adrenaline injections?”
“Naturally I’ve, professor.”
Wolf rose.
“I’m tired and I’m hungry,” he appended. “Good night, gentlemen.”
Biernacki and Rancewicz offered Wolf, as customs dictated, the hospitality
of their homes, though he categorically refused:
“Thank you very much, dear colleagues. You see, I have already made other
arrangements.”
In reality speaking the truth he had made no other arrangements; he wished
to be left alone. He found a small restaurant close by, ate supper, and without
much ado located the nearest, least expensive hotel. There from the porter he
learned that the first train for Vilna was departing at nine o’clock in the morning.
It was a comfortable express train. Wolf was not particularly in a hurry so he
elected to take a local which was leaving at noon.
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He had no plans or hankering for a protracted sojourn in Warsaw, just long
enough to check up on Dobraniecki. He was convinced that if Dobraniecki would
survive the night he would recover.
Habitually an early riser he got up at seven, ate breakfast served to him by a
half-asleep maid, then headed for the clinic. The doctor on duty there reported
effusively:
“Dobraniecki is alive, Professor Wolf. I can’t come up with words of
plaudits and congratulations. I have been a practicing surgeon for fifteen years, yet
I’ve never ever experienced anything even remotely similar to your skills. You are
a wizard, Professor Wolf.”
Wolf waved his hand impassively.
“Please friend, do not exaggerate. Long years of practice and a modicum of
talent that’s all. Will you kindly amplify on the patient’s medical status?”
The doctor related the latest medical data on the patient, appending with:
“As expected Doctor Dobraniecki is quietly reposing, asleep.”
Doctor Rancewicz arrived at that very minute and together with Wolf
mounted up the stairs to the second floor.
Dobraniecki rested peacefully. A nurse was sitting at his bedside. He
breathed shallowly but rhythmically. His gaunt apparition bespoke of his integral
physical exhaustion. As Wolf was checking the patient’s pulse, the patient woke
up. He was lucid. He looked up at Wolf. On his pale green face appeared a wan
blush.
“So you have arrived,” he spoke up scarcely audibly. “I’m totally
overwhelmed by your compassion and generosity. I’m physically exhausted and
it’s quite impossible for me to collect my faculties. I think that my condition is
quite hopeless, but I trust you implicitly. Please determine whether the operation
can be performed.”
Rancewicz interposed.
“It has already been done.”
Dobraniecki’s eyelids fluttered.
“What has been done, the surgery?”
“Yes, Professor Wolf operated yesterday evening and thank heaven it all
went well.”
The patient closed his eyes. Rancewicz added:
“You’ll live, you will be all right.”
Dobraniecki wept with his eyes closed. It took a long time for him to collect
himself. He opened his eyes and peered at Wolf, as if wishing to get his
acknowledgement.
“That’s right, you’ll live. Your self-diagnosis proved to be valid one hundred
percent. The tumor indeed grew in the area of the pineal body and spread itself on
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the cerebellum and under the both parietal lobes. We were successful in removing
it intact, all of it. According to my prognostics you will be on your feet in less than
three weeks.”
Dobraniecki with the hand at his heart enunciated as if he were taking an
oath:
“I would never have believed...I’ve never knew that a man could be so
magnanimously forgiving.”
Wolf’s lips stirred. His eyes flushed, though in the next second he becalmed
himself, just as Dobraniecki added:
“A million thanks cannot express my gratitude and the debt I could never
repay you. I’ve never expected such benevolence and probity of character even
from you.”
Wolf coughed.
“Well, it’s time for me. I wish you a speedy recovery and all the best.”
He turned and headed for the door. In the corridor Mrs. Nina had awaited
him. She accosted him with words of gratification, shook his hand, crying and
laughing, and chaotically narrating the highlights of the operation as if she had
been unaware that he was the best informed about it. In the end she quieted down.
“Is that true, Professor Wolf, that Jerry will be all right now?”
“Yes. He’ll fully recover.”
“Ah, Professor Wolf, when they told me the good tidings I nearly went mad
from joy. Then I perceived the virtue and generosity of your soul. You are an
angel, Professor Wolf.”
Wolf shook his head.
“No, just striving to be a human.”
He took the side stairs down to avoid farewells and good-byes, to quit the
clinic inconspicuously. He returned to the hotel, settled the bill and went on foot to
the Main Terminal. There he sat down on a bench in the waiting room. Opposite
the bench there was a newspaper stand. Inadvertently his eyes rested on the
headline of one of the dailies:
“The Sensational Brain Operation Was Performed by Professor Wolf in
Warsaw.” The other headline read: “Professor Wolf Arrives Just in Time to Save
the Life of His Colleague and Friend.”
Wolf turned his head and thought:
“That’s the City with its flippancy, its warped truth and its indifference.”
242
CHAPTER XVII
Professor Wolf didn’t send a telegram heralding his arrival on two accounts.
First he didn’t wish to be hailed as a celebrity, and second he had to curtail his
expenses to a minimum. True that he had received a quite substantial sum for his
recently published scientific work; alas he had spent some of it procuring
medications for the clinic, and a three weeklong visit to Vilna had taken another
chunk out of it. What was left scarcely covered a railroad ticket and transportation
from the Ludwikowo station to Radoliszki.
There was also a third motive, perhaps even outweighing the first two, and
Wolf would never admit it to himself. He wanted to appear unexpectedly,
surprisingly, to witness with his own eyes how the things stood between Lucy and
Kolski? Such unannounced arrival smacked of a scheme of spying, whereas Wolf
in vain pretended he was thus just economizing. Hadn’t he willingly removed
himself for three weeks, to let Lucy and Kolski get well acquainted, and with his
absence to give Lucy time to reassess her feelings and ambitions for the future?
His decision was dictated by a cool logical reasoning. Since the day of the
Kowalewsko ball, since that very memorable evening when Mr. Jurkowski had
verbally assaulted him, crudely, nonetheless with an incisive dose of applicable
arguments, Wolf’s conscience had become poisoned by doubts. With the basis of
his future plans seemingly pulverized he had reluctantly hazarded upon an unusual
decision. The unexpected arrival of Kolski had only facilitated and precipitated
making up his mind. In the beginning Wolf had intended under some pretext to
expedite Lucy to Warsaw for a lengthy span of time. He hadn’t considered
specifically Kolski, yet he hadn’t discounted him either. His plan was to put Lucy
back into society’s circulation, among the Capital youths and intelligentsia, where
she could experience and enjoy diversions akin to her age and position. He had
hopefully expected that there she was bound to befriend a nice young man and
perhaps even become attached to him, foreboding that her love for her dear old
professor couldn’t withstand the test of time.
Luckily Kolski’s appearance had freed Wolf of contriving an elaborate
scheme. The circumstances seemed propitious. Wolf had had no doubts that the
trial to which he had submitted Lucy, namely commingling for three weeks tete-atete with Kolski might prove effective one way or another. If Lucy had remained
faithful to Wolf it would indicate a tangible example of her constancy, or the
friendship she had for so long professed for Kolski would assume another shape
and color, ripening into what people call love.
The second contingency according to the professor’s logic spoke out
eloquently supported by several factors. The main one was the youth and vitality
243
of both of them, common tastes and interests and Kolski’s love. To Wolf the
above attributes of compatibility were overwhelming in itself, especially when the
young duo had to keep each other company for a lengthy period of time.
One would have been mistaken if one had presumed Wolf was returning in
an unaffected mood. He had become paralyzed by the realization that he must
forsake Lucy forever and must cancel all his plans concerning her, and he was not
overly overjoyed. He knew that it was the only right thing to do, sincere and
honest, his last magnanimous generosity which in result would bring to an end the
final chapter of his life, that he conscientiously and ultimately had thus renounced
forever his happiness.
At the Ludwikowo station he hired a wagon from one of the Radoliszki
Jews. The bony hag lazily dragged its legs so that when they neared the mill it was
already getting dark. At the crossroad he paid the Jew and seizing his luggage
lumbered unhurriedly all the way to the clinic. The door had not been locked yet.
He pressed on its knob and entered. There was no one in the anteroom and the
entire building was eerily tranquil in contrast to his footsteps which resounded
aloud. Suddenly from the ambulatorium Donka inquired:
“Hello, is anyone there?”
“Hello, Donka! That’s me.”
“Jesus Christ,” he heard a euphoric scream. “Mr. Professor is back!”
Animated she rushed into the anteroom. She helped him with his coat and bolted
into the kitchen to prepare tea, happily babbling without stopping.
“Where is Miss Lucy?”
“She ventured out for a walk. Every day they go out together, Miss Lucy
and Doctor Kolski, and usually never return until early evening. They make long
hikes sometimes as far as Wickuny.”
“How is Doctor Kolski? By now he must be bored to death.”
“He is not bored at all; conversely he’d be glad to abide here forever.”
“Very engaging personality,” Wolf advanced casually. “Do you like him,
Donka?”
“It makes no difference whether I like him or not. I have my own fiance and
don’t care about others, and if someone insinuates that I make sheepish eyes at
him, that’s an arrant lie.”
“Who insinuates that, Vasil?” Wolf plied her for answer, slightly amused.
“Not my Vasil, sir. Miss Lucy.”
“How come you know she alleges that?”
“Oh, I know. The other day she even rebuked me for being frivolous. She
also threatened to denounce me to you, Mr. Wolf; that I seductively flirted with
Doctor Kolski, as if I wanted him for myself. Let her keep him all to herself. It’s
the first time in my life I hear one is forbidden to laugh or joke deeming it
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improper. Everyone laughs and jokes. For instance you sir, you have often
indulged yourself laughing and joking with me.”
Wolf coughed and replied:
“Laughing is not a sin.”
“That’s what I told her that you, sir, wouldn’t be angry with me because of
some silly tittering.”
“I’m never angry at anybody, dear child,” Wolf said, sipping tea. “Has
anything else happened? In the mill they all are well, yes?”
“Yes, they are all right, only grandpa impatiently inquires every day whether
there were any letters from you.”
“He comes here every day, yes?”
“At first he was, though currently he spitefully avoids Miss Lucy.”
Wolf looked puzzled.
“Why is he avoiding her?”
“He strongly disapproves her commingling with Doctor Kolski. He doesn’t
like him. He contends that you, sir, were wrong letting him to stay alone here.
Somehow grandpa doesn’t trust him. Why, I find Doctor Kolski as a nice young
man. When Doctor Kolski wanted to hire horses the other week, the grandpa
wouldn’t even hear about it.”
“Hire horses, what for?”
“Doctor Kolski and Miss Lucy routinely take horse rides. They hire mounts
from one of the Russian Orthodox creed in Nieskupy and saddles from Wojtylla.
There they are stuck up in the corner,” she pointed out.
Wolf looked in that direction.
“Indeed they are.”
“But now as I see it,” Donka continued, “the doctor will be compelled to
leave for Warsaw. In the first place there’s no room for him here, unless he’ll
sleep in the surgical ward or here in the anteroom. And that also will ruin their
plans for a birthday party,” Donka ended with a shade of spite in her voice.
“Tell me for whose birthday party?”
“For Mrs. Pawlicka’s party; they are both set to go to Pawlicki’s manor on
Saturday. Mrs. Pawlicka in person invited them on Monday. It is supposed to be a
grand ball. Miss Lucy even bought a new beautiful dress for the occasion. It is
blue adorned with a transparent veil.”
The professor drank up the tea and sat for a while thinking, whereas Donka
left the table. Glancing at the window she announced:
“Aha! They are back, and on time. Please sir, look out. They are scaling
the fence.”
Wolf neared the window. He saw Kolski indeed climbing over the fence
separating the fields from the tract. He jumped off it and stretched his arms
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helping Lucy. He didn’t hear them, yet noticed that both of them were in high
spirits, joyous and playful. Lucy’s flushed countenance radiated mirth. Both
giddily elated were leisurely sauntering toward the clinic, holding their hands.
From time to time they erupted into a jocular laughter.
Wolf moved away from the window. He had no doubt whatsoever of the
outcome engendered by his own contrivance. He wished he could remove himself
from their sight, knowing that it was impossible.
The door opened. Lucy entered with Kolski. Both of them appeared caught
off guard at the sight of the professor. Lucy cried out:
“Professor, you are back!”
Wolf forced a half-smile.
“Yes I’m back, and how are you, my dears?”
Despite the cordiality of welcoming a thread of consternation lingered in
their comportment toward each other. As they sat to sup, Wolf, not of a loquacious
temperament, with flourish regaled them with details of his visit to Vilna.
Exhausting that topic he proceeded to describe the surgery he had performed on
Dobraniecki.
As they were finishing their supper Wolf called Kolski aside.
“Will you grant me another favor, dear colleague and stay here for a bit
longer? You’ll sleep in my room. I’ll make a lair in the surgical ward.”
“Oh no, I’d never agree to any imposition upon you, professor,” Kolski
protested. “If I’m going to remain longer in no way I’m going to inconvenience
you, sir. I can lodge comfortably in the surgical room myself.”
Having arranged bedding for Kolski and moving his possessions into the
surgical ward the professor excused himself being exhausted, and saying good
night retired to his room.
From a wide beam of light cast on the ground to the wee hours of night he
assumed that Lucy and Kolski were still conversing.
“Conversing what about?
I wonder whether there’s already an
understanding between them. Did he propose to her? And if so do they confer
how is she going to break the previous commitment, and how is she going to
exculpate herself before the good old professor for nullifying his future plans?”
To Wolf the new developments appeared fantastically improbable, although
he was not blind to see that Lucy and Kolski had fallen for each other head over
heels. Still he had never imagined a girl of so staid character changing so quickly.
She might have tried to pull the wool over his eyes if she had fallen for Kolski, or
she might have even never admitted the fact to herself and in her unyielding
willpower would have attempted to keep her promise. Oh yes, Wolf was
absolutely certain that she was able to sustain suffering for the sake of
appearances.
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He closed his weary eyes attempting to analyze Lucy’s posture at the very
minute of his arrival. Doubtlessly she had to be flummoxed to put it mildly at his
sight, although she had greeted him sincerely and with enthusiasm as expected. At
supper her carriage had been a bit coy and fainthearted, yet she hadn’t avoided his
eyes and eagerly had partaken in confabulation, inquisitive as always. He had
descried nothing out of the ordinary aside from that that in the course of the
evening she hadn’t exchanged one word with Kolski. Apparently they both
purposefully had pretended to ignore each other in stark contrast to a few hours
earlier when they had been so demonstratively engrossed with themselves. That
was something indeed to dwell upon at length.
Then he recalled the pair of saddles in the corner of the anteroom. Well,
presently they are riding on horseback. In winter they’ll be skiing and skating. In
summer perhaps they will climb mountains. They are young; they have similar
interests, tastes, ambitions, youth and strength to realize it.
The roosters were already crowing in Prokop’s stead as Wolf succumbed to
sleep.
Having agreed to take part in the ball two days back, at the time of departure
to Pawlicki’s manor Lucy, contrite, was on the verge of defaulting. She was
astonished though by Wolf’s sudden sunny disposition; he had been looking
forward to have the evening all to himself. (Yemiol habitually patronized the
Radoliszki inn where he usually sat till late evening.) Jokingly frivolously he
accompanied them to the coach. Alas, he didn’t have the evening all to himself.
Just as Lucy and Kolski had driven off, Prokop put up his appearance. He said his
customary pleasantries rather in frosty parlance. As they seated themselves
leisurely, he fired away:
“Well, what story have you brought from the civilized world?”
“The eternal old story,” Wolf nodded his head judiciously. “People fight for
a crust of bread like hungry dogs for a bone, befuddled by their petty problems,
just striving to keep afloat.”
“You were quite a while away,” remarked Prokop. “That is bad.”
“Why, what’s wrong with it?” Wolf’s curiosity was heightened.
“You see, my belief is: ‘When one has something of an authentic value one
has to safeguard it.’ If you leave your house unlocked, they’ll rob you. Locals
won’t touch a thing, though strangers… and one of them is gadding and lording
about here… that’s another story. I wouldn’t trust any one of them.”
“You are talking in parables, Prokop, the parables I can’t fathom. I have
found nothing missing. Come to the point directly if you have something on your
mind.”
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“It’s not easy for me,” the old miller bade his time, beginning to roll a
cigarette.
“I repeat again, everything seems to be in a shipshape order. The patients
are all well.”
“Forget the patients.”
“What are you driving at?”
Prokop’s brows ruffled. With his right hand he slowly stroked his bushy
gray beard.
“You’d better kick that young doctor out. He’s not needed here. He has
fulfilled his three weeks leave. Now let him go to hell. He has been lording about
like the gray ‘eminence.’ I thought that you upon your arrival would chuck him
out. He’s flaunting himself here abusing your hospitality. Loitering, strolling
about, horseback riding and other things. Let him go back where he has come
from. Who needs him anyway?”
Subsequently the old man started to pant irritably, attempting to stifle his
animosity.
Wolf pretended being astonished:
“I can’t believe my own ears. I have known Doctor Kolski for ages. He’s a
consummate professional and a very convivial and decent man. I can’t find one
fault with him. Perhaps during my absence he has done something wrong?”
Prokop shrugged his shoulders.
“Wrong or not it’s irrelevant.”
“But people he has treated are quite satisfied.”
“Treatments are treatments, although he cares more for those who don’t
need any treatments. I hoped you’d discover it by yourself and would put an end
to it. To make it worse you’ve expedited them together to a fancy soiree.”
Wolf patted Prokop gently on his back.
“And what were my options, old friend? They are very young so let them
dance to their heart’s content. For us old there’s gab and a warm stove, for them
dancing. That’s the natural order of things.”
Prokop shook his head:
“You surprise me with your attitude. I would never permit my woman,
especially if she was that young such liberties.”
“Did you say my woman?” Wolf offered rather bemused. “Can a woman,
any woman, belong to a man? You can own a house; you can own a coat, a cow,
etc., not a woman. Doesn’t she feel and functions uniformly as you and I? She has
her own indisputable rights as everyone else. What, can I keep her against her
will? That would be worse than jail. And what good would it do to me to have her
thus constrained? She would never acquiesce, thinking how to shake the bonds,
would pine and lament her plight with no end to it!”
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Prokop mulled over contemplatively for a spell.
“I believed that it has been all settled between you two.”
“Thank heaven that it hasn’t been settled yet,” sadly replied Wolf, shifting
the colloquy on another subject, thus alluding to Prokop that he had stirred up
arguments which were not entirely indifferent to him if not hurting.
Meanwhile in Pawlicki’s hospitable abode the invited guests were greeted
with open arms. Lucy was not mistaken. Indeed Squire Jurkowski was visibly
shocked beholding her chaperoned not by Wolf but by Kolski. He sized up Kolski
diligently, particularly when Kolski danced with Lucy. He demonstratively
avoided the dance floor in favor of the bar and periodically showed up to hang
about the salon door.
Lucy danced mostly with Kolski who happened to be a marvelous partner; in
addition, he was unusually kind to her on that very day. He was cheerful and
buoyant, not restrained in his habitually meditative mood, and happy resembling
one who only with difficulty contained his exhilarating energy. Lucy was in
seventh heaven. She was not even, contrary to her natural modesty, unduly
abashed when incidentally she overheard a compliment by an elderly guest, who
while pointing out Lucy and Kolski to his companion vocalized intentionally quite
aloud:
“Look dear, what a perfectly matched pair.”
Shortly after supper, Mr. Jurkowski invited Lucy to tango. She saw no
reason to refuse, although it would have been much better for her if she had. He
had had a few too many under his belt for without preamble he fired away a
tactless to excess question:
“How is our good Professor Wolf? You have left him behind?”
“The professor felt tired. In all fairness to him he’s not fond of noisy
soirees.”
“But you’ve found an excellent substitute in your youthful companion.”
Lucy ignored his comment.
“And the substituting by no means is putting you off as I can see. The
professor might not like it at all. What do you think?”
He blurted it out with intended malice in his voice. Lucy slightly annoyed
shrugged it off and wishing to deflect the acerbity retorted:
“Doctor Kolski is an old friend of the professor and was once his pupil. And
you, why aren’t you dancing?”
“Today I don’t dance. Today I’d like to admire a rare sight I haven’t seen in
my life. I’d rather gaze at it to retain it in my memory.”
“You have to retain what?” Lucy seemed puzzled.
“I have to retain the possessive look of a woman being so thoroughly
entranced by love. You are staring at our doctor as at a rainbow, and he is ogling
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you like a cat hot porridge. To one hundred devils! You cannot take your eyes off
each other. So why were you spinning me stories about the professor, whereas all
that time you have been in love with that young doctor?”
Lucy felt she was paling and blushing alternately. Jurkowski’s insinuations
shocked and confused her to such a degree that for a spell she was unable to realize
how far the young squire had crossed the line of convention and decency, brutally
intruding into her personal affairs.
“You are entirely wrong,” she responded dryly. “Doctor Kolski and I are
good friends, nothing beyond that.”
“Fiddlesticks! Old friendship my foot! You are enchanted with him, don’t
deny it, even a blind can see that. Perhaps you are assuming that I speak spitefully
being jealous. Yes, I admit I’m jealous, yet my envy can’t discount the fact that
you love him. I don’t understand, though, why you lied to me in Kowalewsko,
implicating the professor in your scheme. My, my, suppose the professor will
officially become your husband, whereas that young doctor might be a friend, just
a good friend. Well, the joke’s on me.”
Lucy’s features tensed.
“You are drunk. Will you please escort me to my seat?”
“I’m at your disposal, dear lady. There’s one there pining, desperately
awaiting you. I beg your pardon for being so insensitive to keep you two love birds
apart.”
As they faced Kolski, Jurkowski graciously bowed to him, exculpating
himself:
“Here, young fellow, I’m belatedly restoring to you the borrowed priceless
treasure.”
Kolski unaware of what had transpired said with a chuckle:
“You are in minority of those who’d so magnanimously and conscientiously
condescend to forfeit the borrowed treasure, so conscientiously and so readily.”
Jurkowski again bowed with exaggerating gallantry.
“In this instance the treasure has decided itself being incapable to withstand
any longer the separation from its possessor.”
Saying this he turned on his heel and exited the salon. Only now Kolski had
noticed Lucy’s face burning with indignation.
“Is anything wrong? Are you all right, Miss Lucy?” he inquired alarmed.
She shook her head.
“It’s nothing. It’s stuffy here,” she answered, “besides, the gentleman being
inebriated babbled without any sense.”
Blood rushed into Kolski’s head.
“Has he offended you in any way?”
“No, no, heaven forbid. Can we rest for a while?”
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He readily consented.
“Let’s go outside to get some fresh air. You look pale, Miss Lucy.”
Passing through they stumbled at Pawlicki who addressed them:
“You didn’t get tired dancing, yes?”
“No, no,” explicated Kolski. “Miss Lucy doesn’t feel well. She’d like to
catch a short breather.”
“A short respite can’t hurt. I’ll show you to my wife’s room, where Miss
Lucy you can lie down on a sofa.”
“There’s no need for that,” Lucy objected.
Deeming impolite to refuse the host’s hospitality she relented. They were
ushered into a spacious room with the appointments of a bedroom and a study; in
the middle of it on a desk stood a brightly lit lamp.
“I pray you’ll regain your strength,” Pawlicki exhorted her encouragingly,
“for the night is still young. Now if you pardon me, I must rejoin the guests.”
“We are grateful for your consideration.” Kolski thanked him, and when the
door had closed behind Pawlicki, he turned to Lucy:
“It’s indeed a good idea. You can as well lie down here for a while.”
Lucy shook her head and turned away. She couldn’t look at him and remain
indifferent as before. The brutal words uttered by Jurkowski had shattered with a
powerful blow her impregnable so painstakingly put together and so accurately
placed shields, screens and veils, behind which she had endeavored to hide the
truth and in vain had attempted to pent-up her rousing feelings and emotions.
“It can’t be true, it can’t be true, it can’t be,” she repeated fervently in her
mind yet the words of denial couldn’t undermine what was now very apparent to
her, all too apparent.
Bewildered as she was she had to face the reality - everything from the first,
namely that she had been indeed bitterly jealous of Dobraniecka and even of
Donka. That she had giddily rejoiced every time Kolski had prolonged his staying
in the clinic, and had dreaded, yes, had dreaded the moment of his departure and
the reappearance of the professor. She loathed herself for that and was scared out
of her wits.
Oh, how obdurately she had tried to convince herself, in vain, that she loved
Wolf and that she desired to marry him, and how obstinately she had refused to
consider his age! And how pleased she had been when he wouldn’t let Kolski
journey back home. Were the emotions she so skillfully had concealed in herself
and withheld from Kolski apparent to others? She was mortified by the
premonition that the professor had surmised it effortlessly. She detested herself for
the weakness of her character, for being so selfish. She had shamelessly
surrendered to the sentiment she ought to resist and extirpate when there was still
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time. How low she had stooped herself letting Wolf gradually to fall for her,
whereas her heart all along had belonged to another.
I have pledged my hand to him and I will keep my pledge, let come what
may, even if the whole world falls apart, even if I had to die!
The above words became indelibly imprinted in her heart. Oh, dear God, if
that was somebody else, for example Jurkowski, not the professor. Then she
wouldn’t suffer the pangs of conscience. She recognized only too well how lonely
Professor Wolf was and how dearly he valued her companionship. To abandon
him now, she thought, amounted to a despicable act of desertion.
“I’m going to stick with it, I will,” she stubbornly repeated in her mind.
These were the last words that tipped the scales of her conscience, the scales
that would never be reversed. She turned to Kolski giving him a pitiful glance.
Her heart skipped a beat.
“John, you are going to depart at once, tomorrow as early as possible,” she
enunciated haltingly.
“Why, Miss Lucy? What has transpired for heaven’s sake?” he exclaimed in
horror.
She shook her head.
“Nothing, nothing, yet if you feel any affection for me, please, I beg you on
my knees, return to Warsaw at once!”
“But why?”
Lucy was incapable to hold her emotions pent-up any longer. Tears welled
in her eyes and from her breast escaped spasmodic sobbing. Kolski, alarmed,
cuddled her in a tender embrace.
“Darling, my love,” he repeated soothingly. “Please calm yourself.”
Alas, she remained distraught and inconsolable. She felt his caressing arms
enfolding her, but she was powerless to disentangle herself. She felt his gentle
kisses, sincere and desirous. At the same time the startling perception struck her
that she must relinquish them for the remainder of her life.
Kolski placed Lucy in an armchair and kneeling whispered reassuring,
consoling words, kissing her hands. Gradually she recovered her equilibrium, as
he solicitously wiped her eyes and cheeks with his handkerchief.
“I will never forsake you, my love,” he averred her solemnly. “I will never
let you out of my sight.”
“Johnny...darling,” she bemoaned quietly and threw her arms round his
neck.
In a sudden impulse he clasped her tightly to him.
“You do love me, dear Lucy. You do love me!”
“Yes, I love you, only you!”
“See how lucky we are. What a happy ending,” he expounded elated.
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“We will marry and will never part. Nothing will turn us asunder my
dearest, my only love!”
Lucy bit her lips, pushed him away and shaking her head stated with
determination:
“No John, no, I love you, but can’t you see that I’m not free. I have given
him my word. We have been defeated by fate. There’s nothing we can do about
it.”
He was looking at her in disbelief.
“What do you mean you are not free?”
“I’ve obligations to keep.”
He seized her hand in a powerful grip.
“Lucy! Are you… that you are...that you are his...that you are involved with
him?”
She understood not so subtle connotation of his question, the question the
convention prevented him to ask her openly. She vehemently denied it:
“Oh, no, God forbid, though there are commitments a hundredfold stronger
that that.”
“No commitment,” he erupted, “binds stronger than genuine love.”
She shook her head.
“You are again simplifying everything. No, I can’t. I can’t tell him about
us. Such words will never pass my lips. Just think about him, his tragic past, his
pain and grievances of being unjustly stigmatized and banished, the kindest, most
generous and noblest man in this world. No John. I’ve fallen for you too late, and
that’s unfortunate for both of us. And regardless of our feelings I can’t withdraw
my avowal to him. I would hate myself for the rest of my life for dealing him fresh
injury. It’s hard on me as God is my witness, but there’s no other way, darling.”
“Lucy,” he implored.
“Please John, let’s give it a rest. It’s no use.”
“Lucy, just listen to me, I beg you. I’m certain and as a matter-of-fact I
know that the professor doesn’t intend to hold you to your word.”
“It’s absurd, it’s beyond comprehension!”
“No, it’s not absurd. He has told me so himself!”
“He has told you so? Impossible.”
“Well, not directly, he urged me to persevere and not to give up in winning
you.”
“Bah humbug to all hints and allusions,” she went on with a melancholy
smile.
“You still do not believe me. All right I’m going to repeat the highlights of
the conversation. Out of the blue he queried me how old I was and why I was not
married, imparting upon me of the advantages of being married, and purposefully
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underlined that one ought to commit oneself to it only when one was mature,
though still young. It looked as if he was prompting me with: ‘If you love her take
her, you won’t encounter any objections on my part.’”
For a short minute Lucy’s eyes enlivened. She believed John implicitly.
Undoubtedly Wolf’s hints had been purposely employed; nevertheless Lucy’s
hands were tied.
She assumed that Wolf had presupposed the eventuality of Lucy falling for
Kolski, just as Jurkowski or that elderly couple who had labeled them an
exceptionally well matched pair. Wolf had discovered her affection for Kolski.
Presently that noble soul whose life so far had been a slew of painful setbacks and
charity toward others, once again had elected to be magnanimous - one more
sacrifice and still another painful page in his life diary. Lucy couldn’t, had no right
and wouldn’t sign that very page, not for anything in this world. Again another
noble gesture on his part, perhaps even sincerely meant, but she would adjudicate
herself as one without conscience and morals, who after usurping the only gift he
had possessed was ready to welsh and to wriggle out of her promise. She will
conscientiously abide by her pledge and will faithfully stand by him.
She knew exactly what to do. First at once to expedite Kolski to Warsaw
and second to master her nerves, and with each word, gesticulation and glance day
by day to prove to Wolf about the constancy of her feelings, and that her only
wish, the only expectation was to become his wife.
She got up, arranged her hair in the looking glass and calmly spoke up:
“No, no, dear John. That doesn’t change in the least the entire situation.”
“Why don’t you listen to me?” he sputtered impetuously. “He has
unequivocally given your freedom back. Lucy, why can’t you take it as the sacred
truth?”
“Has he given it back, tell me why? What motives were behind it?”
“What’s the difference what his motives were?”
“It’s very important. You see, he yielded only by surmising I was in love
with you.”
“Which no one can deny.”
“Hadn’t he presumed so he wouldn’t have surrendered, would he?”
“Thank God he has figured it out in time,” Kolski pressed on, “that
simplifies somewhat the situation. One can’t undo love.”
“I can. I’ll demonstrate to him how wrong he was.”
Kolski by now had been fulminating inside.
“That’s absurd even to think about it. It’ll be a crime against both of us.”
“Isn’t it a crime to abandon him to loneliness, to trample upon his feelings,
to steal his hopes? If I desert him now the memories of him will poison our lives,
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will prevent us from enjoying one minute of being together. No, dear John, I will
never allow this to take place.”
“For heaven’s sake, Miss Lucy, don’t you realize that by marrying him you
are erasing with one stroke your own and my happiness forever?”
She pierced him with her fervid eyes.
“I do realize that, alas as it repeats itself till now everyone has been erasing
the professor’s happiness: His wife abandoned him for a young man. For years on
end he lived in abject poverty, being treated like dirt, jailed and finally recovered
his memory only to be submitted to the most vile, indiscriminately slanderous
calumnies and the most injurious defamatory intrigues. They stole his fame,
wealth and banished him from the Capital. Even his own flesh and blood, his
daughter, has conveniently forgotten about his existence. No, John, no, I’d rather
die first than become one of them who repaid his kindness and his unlimited
generosity and goodwill with meanness and deceitful subterfuge. If you can’t
comprehend my position, in conclusion I will incline to adjudicate you being too
selfish, too insensitive, having nothing in common with me.”
She had ended with bitterness in her voice. Kolski stood there contrite, his
head sunk low.
“I comprehend you well, too well. Only I can’t in good faith reconcile
myself with your terms.”
Doctor Pawlicki reentered the room.
“And how does our dear lady feel? Better?” he asked in earnest.
“I’m so sorry to have caused you trouble. I felt a bit dizzy, perhaps on
account of overworking with so many patients?”
“I’m to be blamed for,” hinted Pawlicki. “Recently I’ve been neglecting
your clinic, though I swear I’m going to amend myself. It’s a pity you don’t feel
well because they have just announced a cotillion dance.”
Lucy replied exculpating herself.
“I do regret I can’t participate in it. Will you be good enough to arrange a
carriage to take us back?”
After a bit of fussing and protesting Pawlicki gave up and went outside to
give orders.
A quarter of an hour later bundled up in warm blankets they were on their
way home. The iron hoops of the wheels bounced off the hard frozen surface of
the tract. The driver, from time to time, unnecessarily cracked the whip at the
galloping team.
They sat in silence. Kolski put his hand under Lucy’s plaid and gently
caressed the palm of her hand.
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The clinic was dark inside. Only a faint glimmer of an oil lamp shone
through the patients’ room windows. Trying not to arouse the sleeping they
quietly entered the anteroom and took off their overcoats.
“Good night,” Lucy stretched out her hand.
He wanted to embrace her and to kiss her.
“No, no, it’s not necessary. Anyhow, tomorrow you are leaving.”
Her whisper sounded quite naturally nevertheless tears appeared in her eyes.
“Lucy, Lucy,” Kolski squeezed her hand.
“Good night. You can take the lamp. I can find my way in the darkness.”
Kolski entered his room; with a heavy heart he began to reflect upon Lucy’s
staid character and how strong willed and obstinate she was. In the wake of so
overwhelming arguments he had put forth came the pathetic cognizance that he
was powerless to dissuade her from her implacable willfulness. She was
consciously dragging herself into disaster, banishing happiness from their lives,
reducing it to a dreary, colorless existence and perpetual suffering. Alas, he in vain
searched for words significant and persuasive enough to alter her resolve.
Smoking countless cigarettes he had deplored his desperate plight till the
wee hours of the night. He had to agree to Lucy’s terms, and willingly. He was
convinced he had no other option but to leave immediately. After breakfast he will
drop in at the mill to ask for a ride to the station. He couldn’t stand any longer
closeted inside. He threw his coat over his shoulders and ventured outside.
The air was invigoratingly bracing. Everything around: trees: fences, roofs
and eaves were covered with frost. In the east appeared the first purple-bluish
streaks of dawn. The day promised to be brisk and sunny. He made a bee line for
the ponds which were not yet locked in ice. Only at their very edges in shallow
waters there were thin sheets of glassy surface. He reached the end of the second
pond, and as he turned back he distinguished wafts of white smoke above the clinic
chimney. It was Donka preparing breakfast, he guessed aloud.
At the veranda he was met by Wolf.
“Good morning, dear colleague. Admiring sunrise? It’s beautiful, isn’t it? I
see that you are also an early riser and you do appreciate a morning stroll. I
knocked at your door and poked inside. Why are you packed already?”
Kolski avoiding Wolf’s eyes answered:
“I have to return to Warsaw, I really do. I’ve sojourned here too long.”
“Don’t even think about it. I won’t let you go. You need not worry about
your clinic. In all fairness Professor Dobraniecki owes me a favor. If I’m detaining
you, he’ll understand it, and as I’ve said, he owes me a favor.”
“You are right, sir. Then again it’s time for me to leave.”
Wolf took him under his arm.
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“We’ll talk about it another time. First you’ll tell me how did you enjoy the
party? I suppose it was not too amusing, that’s why you returned early, yes?”
“No, it was a very nice soiree, a barrel of fun, an exquisite supper and
dancing, lots of dancing.”
Wolf appraised him circumspectly.
“By your facial expression you look as you have come back not from a ball
but from a funeral.”
Kolski chuckled:
“Perhaps you are right, sir.”
Wolf cleared his throat stalling for time, and for a while they were silent.
Kolski feverishly scoured his mind. Perhaps it would have been better to tell the
professor that very minute what had transpired, to come straight to the point
concerning Lucy’s reservations, and to seek out the professor’s advice. In the end
he had opted, losing a long tug-of-war with his conscience, not to.
Wolf resumed:
“Look up friend. What a beautiful sunrise. Here on the outskirts of the
country even late autumns are simply enchanting. The air is typically salubriously
clean and reviving. These old lungs can tell the difference.”
He paused and added:
“Although your lungs are young, still I won’t let you off so easily.”
“Mr. Professor, I beg you sir...” Kolski pleaded.
“Don’t start it again,” Wolf cut him short. “What is this, insubordination?
Let’s go! Breakfast is ready.”
And indeed breakfast had been laid out for them in Lucy’s room. Lucy
poured milk, whereas Donka busied herself at the table.
Lucy, pale, greeted Kolski without any constraint in her demeanor.
“I hear you had quite a time at Pawlicki’s party; singing and dancing, yes?”
Wolf intimated, winking roguishly.
She offered politely.
“It was a wonderful party, although it was marred by your absence.
Everyone was inquiring about you, and the hostess was very disappointed. The
way they presented their admiration for you was music to my ears. Next weekend
you will pay them a visit even if I have to drag you there by force.”
Kolski scrutinized Lucy’s countenance with surreptitious side-glances and
marveled at the strength of her character. She was very relaxed and in a flirtatious
mood. At breakfast she was fawning and playing up to the professor, served him
bread and butter and gibbered incessantly.
As they were leaving the table, she calmly addressed Kolski:
“Have you already arranged with Prokop about a carriage?”
“Not yet,” offered Kolski, lowering his head.
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“Yet if you don’t want to miss the first train you must be ready in half an
hour.”
“I’m going there now.”
Wolf coughed.
“Our dear colleague won’t be leaving today. I’ve persuaded him to help me
in the operations which are due today, and I’d bet Pawlicki partying through the
night won’t be kindly inclined to drop in on us. For sure he’s dead tired and will
sleep late.”
Lucy and Kolski didn’t comment.
In the anteroom appeared the first patients. There were not too many of
them. Three old women bundled up with heavy kerchiefs, one Lithuanian farmer
from Bierwinty, two toddlers from Nieskupy, both with hernias, and the redhead
apprentice, Vitalis, who had slipped early in the morning at the trough and twisted
his ankle.
Wolf and Lucy had managed to finish the treatments by twelve o’clock.
Kolski was still busy in the operating room, setting a complicated hand bone
fracture of an elderly woman. Having a weak heart she couldn’t be anesthetized
and periodically she cried out aloud.
The professor divested himself of a white coat and while washing his hands
turned to Lucy:
“Will you be kind enough to come to my room? I have something what I’ve
received from Vilna to show you.”
“Aha!” she was guessing. “The package with new instruments has arrived,
right?”
“Indeed it has arrived,” confirmed Wolf, “and aside from it also a very
important letter.”
“A letter, I’m curious, sir.”
“On my sojourn in Vilna I became well acquainted with Doctor Jozwinski
who lectures at their university. He’s a proficient and thoroughly pragmatic
scientist. He heard about our clinic and became very captivated by our project. I
enlightened him exhaustively about our work here. Yesterday I received a letter
from him. I would like you to read it.”
They went into Wolf’s room. The professor handed Lucy a folded sheet of
paper. She opened it and read:
“Venerable Sir and Dear Friend! Yesterday I received a postcard from you
which as usual immensely pleased me. I’m also proud to inform you, dear
professor, that as of today we are ready with the pledges, namely I and my
assistants. I’ve already conferred with them, and they are very enthusiastic about
your proposal. And why shouldn’t they be? To work together with you, to partake
in your operations constitutes a privilege and honor for any doctor, no matter how
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experienced. I don’t agree though that the candidates are required to have at least a
modicum of income of their own. For opening I’ve selected a trio. The one to
break the ice is the most talented of them, Doctor Simon Jasinski, a young fellow
from a good family, diligent and industrious with good prospects of becoming an
excellent doctor. I’m confident that under your tutelage he’ll attain such a status,
and six months tenure in your clinic will be a boon to him. In six months I’ll send
your way another aspirant. I’ve checked up with our dean, who without the
slightest hesitation agreed to count the time spent in your clinic into their practice.
You can rest assured, dear professor, that you are on our minds and in our hearts,
and that you won’t be deprived of an assistant even for one day. Doctor Jasinski
will report to you in couple of days. With our best wishes and good luck in your
endeavor. Sincerely yours, F. Jozwinski.”
Lucy finished reading and raised her head.
“How do you like it, Miss Lucy?”
“In principle it’s indeed a grand concept, yet...”
“Yet what?”
“I don’t understand one thing. In the letter he writes that they will never
abandon you alone at your task. As you have undoubtedly elaborated upon the
clinic you have mentioned my name too.”
Lucy’s voice was slightly shaking. She grew alarmed by the presentiments
of what she might hear from Wolf next.
“Not only did I mention you, I extolled to heavens your skills and
dedication. Miss Lucy, I couldn’t have imagined a better assistant than you.”
“Why are you using the past tense?”
“Because, dear Miss Lucy, I’m telling you I can’t accept anymore your
services here.”
“Professor!”
“We both understand only too well why, Miss Lucy?” he disclosed with
ruffled brows.
“I still don’t understand one thing of this,” she deplored dejectedly. “I can’t
accept any of it right now nor will I ever. If you were satisfied with my
performance and I’d swear that you were, why in the world are you getting rid of
me? Professor, how could you? Without even considering talking it over with me,
let alone canceling our plans for the future?”
Wolf responded chagrined if not depressed.
“No, Miss Lucy, I didn’t cancel them. It was fate that canceled them.
Besides, our plans ought to have never been dreamed up in the first place.”
“You are wrong, I’ll never believe it,” she protested vigorously.
“I’m right without any doubt.”
“I can positively demonstrate how wrong you are?”
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“Tell me how, by what means?”
“I’ll prove it by staying with you forever and ever. I swear that’s my life
dream, and that you will hurt me deeply and make me miserable for the remainder
of my natural life if you reject me. My only ambition is to be with you. If you
wish to have another assistant practicing with you, I can’t stop you; but I’ll remain
here with you forever. I’ll be your aide and your wife.”
Lucy’s face flushed and she was trembling as in a fit.
“I don’t know what propelled you to your ultimate decision, and I don’t
want to know. Evidently you were swayed by an erroneous illusion that I’m not
the one to put up a fight for what I’m rightfully entitled to.”
Wolf delicately patted her hand.
“Miss Lucy, let’s reevaluate your question rationally.”
She jumped to her feet.
“No, no, there’s nothing to consider. You have dealt me a mortal blow.”
She wanted to turn away; Wolf prevented it by seizing her arm.
“Please sit down, Miss Lucy, and listen to what I’m going to say.”
Almost forcibly he seated her in a chair. She started to whimper and tears
drenched her face.
“You must realize,” he recommenced in a consoling voice, “how much you
are deluding self by not taking me seriously in your deliberations. You are
completely disregarding my feelings. You have relegated me into an abstract
entity, yet I’m a living entity, a human being, an old human being, alive and
sensitive. Why not calmly reassess my position from my point of view?”
“What are you trying to convey?”
“You are so determined to become my wife, deeming you’ll make me happy
beyond any expectations. Have you ever pondered upon the notion that I might
have felt otherwise?”
“I never…” Lucy stammered.
Wolf interrupted her.
“Perhaps way back I indeed have felt so, though I don’t any longer owing to
that I’m well aware that you love another.”
Lucy locked her jaw and pressed her lips together. Her heart hammered
wildly. She composed herself enough to utter with conviction:
“I don’t want to love anybody else!”
“Dear Miss Lucy, there’s one facet of life where wanting doesn’t necessarily
mean willing, and we can’t help it. Unfortunately no human being is a true master
of his or her heart. Miss Lucy, even then when you believed you loved me, I was
convinced that you mistakenly took sentiments of attachment for real affection. I
have always appreciated your friendship and will cherish it to the last of my days,
and your kindness and warm affection that you have awarded me. Yet it was not
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love. Admit it yourself as a fact, particularly now when you fell for Kolski. No,
please do not deny it, and please do not cover it up. At any rate, who can hide true
feelings?”
Lucy shook her head.
“Sir, you are imagining.”
“No, Miss Lucy, in verity it’s the truth, the sacred truth. Now please take
into account my position objectively, contrary to your true feelings you wish to
marry me. How do you envisage my role in such a union? Can’t you comprehend
at all how burdened I’d be by the fact that I became an obstacle to your happiness
and that you belong to me only because of your erroneous interpretations of your
sentimental outlook and commitment? The pangs of conscience would assail me
by day and night. I would be guilty of standing in the way of your happiness. No,
no, Miss Lucy. Your current position, your sacrifice would never bring
consolation to me or to you or Kolski either. It’s absurd, a sheer madness to
sentence three people to endure agonizing tortures with the notion that makes no
sense.”
Lucy covered her face, dissolving in tears.
“I’ll stay with you, l never ...”
“I’m going to confess honestly that your philanthropic sacrifice would have
immeasurably hurt me. It would mean that you take me for a doddering old man, a
man who couldn’t manage on his own. That your charitable resolve was induced
only by pity thus bestowed on me and, God forbid, tolerated by me.”
“Yes,” she answered feebly, sobbing. “And you are again ready to sacrifice
for the sake of others.”
Wolf shook his head.
“In this case I’m sacrificing nothing. I’m not accepting your offer for your
heart doesn’t belong to me and nobody can help it, neither you nor I. Your heart
pines for another. Dear Miss Lucy, I’ll be frank with you. I confess I’ll miss you
terribly, and sometimes I will even long for you and reminisce affectionately. Yet
I’d be gladdened and at peace with myself that I didn’t mar your future and your
happiness.”
She was still inconsolable.
“Why did he come here? Why?”
“It was very fortunate that it was him. Just think, dear child, would it be
better if somebody else appeared a year or two down the road? It would have
happened inevitably at any time, and earlier is definitely better for all of us.”
By now she was weeping uncontrollably. Wolf bent over her and gently
stroking her hair rationalized patronizingly:
“Who can fight the quirks of fate? The last years of my life I’m going to
spend in peace and quiet, which is not that bad. You have a new life to live: a
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husband, children and home sweet home. Kolski is indeed a fine young man, kind,
decent and more than enterprising. You fit together well, and the happier you two
will be the happier I’ll be. I’m going to freely confess, I like you both very much,
and for you, dear child, I’ll hold the warmest affection till I die.”
She seized his hand and covered it with kisses. He didn’t object and added:
“I’ll be grateful if from time to time both of you will visit me. It’ll uplift my
spirit, believe me. Now calm yourself. Our alliance has been terminated. Please,
wipe your eyes. Donka will appear any minute since lunch is probably prepared.
No need to advertise in presence of others what’s between us.”
Wolf lit a cigarette. Lucy gradually regained her composure. After a long
interval she declaimed:
“I’ll never forgive myself, never...”
“Dear child, there’s no reason. Providence delivered us from imprudent
steps which we might have taken. We ought to be thankful for that. Let’s move
now to more practical subject. The best as I can see, you ought to return to Warsaw
together. I suggest you should pack your stuff today and tomorrow you can both
leave.”
Lucy was sobbing again.
“Why are you trying to get rid of me so hastily? You must despise me.”
“What nonsense,” Wolf raised his voice indignantly. “How can you speak
such bunkum to me, dear child? I merely wish you get together as soon as
possible. The sooner you both repair for Warsaw the better it’ll be for you. After
all, you need time to get used to the new situation, to reflect on it, etc. I propose
you two leave together tomorrow.”
“I’m afraid my heart will burst from sorrow when I’ll be parting from you,”
Lucy intoned disconsolately.
She stood there in the middle of the room, drenched in tears, defeated and
broken up in spirit. Wolf embraced her and cuddling her gently whispered:
“Hush, hush, dear child, don’t pine. I’ll concede this much. It’s not easy for
me either to part with you. But what must be done must be done.”
Someone knocked on the door. It was Donka who informed them that the
lunch was laid out. Wolf told her to wait for a short while, as he wanted to confer
with Kolski first, whom he found in the surgical ward. Avoiding his eyes he
commenced:
“I asked you yesterday to stay for another day or two, and you have probably
guessed by now my rationale behind it.”
“Yes, sir, I have indeed,” comprehensively responded Kolski.
“Well, Miss Lucy will be going with you. You are in love with each other,
and I sincerely wish both of you all the best and happiness.”
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Wolf went silent. Kolski stood there pale like a sheet unable to pronounce
one word.
“It has been agreed,” Wolf spoke up at length, “that you and Lucy had better
leave tomorrow morning. That seems to be the best solution for everyone. Now
will you allow me to congratulate you, dear colleague? You have won a wife of
exceptional qualities. God bless you both.”
He wasn’t able to continue.
Abruptly he turned and exited the
ambulatorium. He staggered into his room. Lucy had already left. He flung
himself on the bed and resting his head in his hands remained in a heartrending
contemplation for hours.
That day they didn’t dine at the clinic. At dusk Lucy packed her belongings,
aided by Donka. The supper was laid out in the anteroom. Wolf nearly had to be
dragged in by Lucy to join them. The mood was generally depressing, only
Yemiol gaily expatiated his protracted monologue, pretending as if nothing had
occurred. In the end Lucy burst into tears and fled to her room. She didn’t close
her eyes through the night. Wolf also didn’t sleep. When he rose in the morning
he looked as one recovering from a long bout with a ravaging disease.
Around eight o’clock a small horse cart drew along the clinic veranda. Vasil
and Kolski stowed in it Lucy’s possessions. Despite that the news of their
departure had reached the mill, no one with the exception of Vasil, the driver,
volunteered to accompany them to the station or even to wish them a good journey.
As everything was set Wolf once more embraced Lucy and bade her
farewell. Both of them had tears in their eyes. Kolski had been already seated in
the cart and impatiently glanced at his watch. Vasil helped Lucy to sit side by side
with Kolski, whereas he jumped on the front seat, cracked the whip in the air, and
the cart trundled toward the tract.
Wolf and Yemiol as if in a hypnotic trance stared at the moving cart. As it
took a sharp turn on the tract, Yemiol declaimed:
“Well, they are gone.”
Wolf rationalized sententiously. “Everyone deserts me in the end.
Everyone...and you too will evanesce one of these days.”
Yemiol shook his head resolutely.
“Not me, I shall never abandon you. I admire you, my gentle friend on
account of your magnanimous foolishness.”
“Foolishness?” Wolf repeated.
“You see, my good fellow, nowadays when brains are used to harm and to
wrong, the foolishness is in effect the epitome of goodness. And what is goodness
if not the epitome of wisdom? Your life appears to me as an anthology of
incomprehensible contradictions, travesties and paradoxes. You live, my generous
prince, to dispense goodness and happiness upon others.”
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“Perhaps I was created for that very purpose,” thoughtfully stated Wolf.
“You live for others and others live for themselves. Only I don’t know
whom or what I live for? I’ve been searching for the answer for years on end at the
bottom of each bottle, and still I can’t hit upon it. Apparently I’ve not come upon
the right bottle yet. Though do not worry, my humble friend, one will come which
I’ll guzzle down and in its last swallow I’ll finally discover the truth.”
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