Selected Polish Tales Part 33

CHAPTER IX

Autumn came with drab, melancholy stubble fields; the bushes in the ravines turned red; the storks hastily left the barns and flew south; in the few woods that remained, the birds were silent, human beings had deserted the fields; only here and there some old German women in blue petticoats were digging up the last potatoes. Even the navvies had left, the embankment was finished, and they had dispersed all over the world. Their place was taken by a light railway bringing rails and sleepers. At first you were only aware of smoke in the distant west; in a few days' time you discovered a chimney, and presently found that that chimney was fixed to a large cauldron which rolled along without horses, dragging after it a dozen wagons full of wood and iron.

Whenever it stopped men jumped out and laid down the wood, fastened the iron to it and drove off again. These were the proceedings which Maciek was watching daily.

'Look, how clever that is,' he said to Slimak; 'they can get their load uphill without horses. Why should we worry the beasts?'

But when the cauldron came to a dead stop where the embankment ended by the ravines and the men had taken out and disposed of the load, 'Now, what will they do?' he thought.

To the farm labourer's utter astonishment the cauldron gave a shrill whistle and moved backwards with its wagons.

Yes, there it was! Had not the Galician harvesters told him of an engine that went by itself? Had they not drunk through his money with which he was to buy boots?

'To be sure, they told me true, it goes by itself; but it creeps like old Sobieska,' he added, to comfort himself. Yet, deep down in his heart he was afraid of this new contrivance and felt that it boded no good to the neighbourhood. And though he reasoned inconsequently he was right, for with the appearance of the railway engines there also came much thieving. From pots and pans, drying on the fences, to horses in the stables, nothing was safe. The Germans had their bacon stolen from the larder; the gospodarz Marcinezak, who returned rather tipsy from absolution, was attacked by men with blackened faces and thrown out of his cart, with which the robbers drove off at breakneck speed. Even the poor tailor Niedoperz, when crossing a wood, was relieved of the three roubles he had earned with so much labour.

The railway brought Slimak no luck either. It became increasingly difficult to buy fodder for the animals, and no one now asked him to sell his produce. The salted b.u.t.ter, and other produce of which he had laid in a stock, went bad, and they had to eat the fowls themselves.

The Germans did all the trading with the railway men, and even in the little town no one looked at the peasant's produce.

So Slimak sat in his room and did no work. Where should he find work?

He sat by the stove and pondered. Would things continue like this?

would there always be too little hay? would no one buy from him? would there be no end to the thieving? What was not under lock and key in the farm-buildings was no longer safe.

Meanwhile the Germans drove about for miles in all directions and sold all that they produced.

'Things are going badly,' said Slimakowa.

'Eh...they'll get straight again somehow,' he answered.

Gradually poor Stasiek was forgotten. Sometimes his mother laid one spoon too many, and then wiped her eyes with her kerchief, sometimes Magda thoughtlessly called Jendrek by his brother's name or the dog would run round the buildings looking for some one, and then lay down barking, with his head on the ground. But all this happened more and more rarely.

Jendrek had been restless since his brother's death; he did not like to sit indoors when there was nothing to do, and roamed about. His rambles frequently ended in a visit to the schoolmaster; out of curiosity he examined the books, and as he knew some of the letters, the schoolmaster's daughter amused herself by teaching him to spell. The boy would purposely stumble over his words so that she should correct him and touch his shoulder to point out the mistake.

One day he took home a book to show what he had learnt, and his overjoyed mother sent the schoolmaster's daughter a couple of fowls and four dozen eggs. Slimak promised the schoolmaster five roubles when Jendrek would be able to pray from a book and ten more when he should have learnt to write. Jendrek was therefore more and more often at the settlement, either busy with his lessons or else watching the girl through the window and listening to her voice. But this happened to annoy one of the young Germans, who was a relation of the Hamers.

Under ordinary circ.u.mstances Jendrek's behaviour would have attracted his parents' attention, but they were entirely engrossed in another subject. Every day convinced them more firmly of the fact that they had too little fodder and a cow too many. They did not say so to each other, but no one in the house thought of anything else. The gospodyni thought of it when she saw the milk get less in the pails, Magda had forebodings and caressed the cows in turns, Maciek, when un.o.bserved, even deprived the horses of a handful of hay, and Slimak would stand in front of the cowshed and sigh.

It was he himself who one night broke this tacit understanding of silence on the sad question which was becoming a crisis; he suddenly awoke, sprang up and sat down on the edge of the bed.

'What's the matter, Josef?' asked his wife.

'Oh...I was dreaming that we had no fodder left and all the cows had died.'

'In the name of the Father and the Son...may you not have spoken that in an evil hour!'

'There is not enough fodder for five tails...it's no good pretending.'

'Well, then, what will you do?'

'How do I know?'

'Perhaps one could...'

'Maybe sell one of them...' finished the husband.

The word had fallen.

Next time Slimak went to the inn he gave Josel a hint, who pa.s.sed it on at once to two butchers in the little town.

When they came to the cottage, Slimakowa refused to speak to them and Magda began to cry. Slimak took them to the yard.

'Well, how is it, gospodarz, you want to sell a cow?'

'How can I tell?'

'Which one is it? Let's see her.'

Slimak said nothing, and Maciek had to take up the conversation.

'If one is to be sold, it may as well be Lysa.'

'Lead her out,' urged the butchers.

Maciek led the unfortunate cow into the yard; she seemed astonished at being taken out at such an unusual hour.

The butchers looked her over, chattered in Yiddish and asked the price.

'How do I know?' Slimak said, still irresolute.

'What's the good of talking like that, you know as well as we do that she's an old beast. We will give you fifteen roubles.'

Slimak relapsed into silence, and Maciek had to do the bargaining; after much shouting and pulling about of the cow, they agreed on eighteen roubles. A rope was laid on her horns and the stick about her shoulders, and they started.

The cow, scenting mischief, would not go; first she turned back to the cowshed and was dragged towards the highroad, then she lowed so miserably that Maciek went pale and Magda was heard to sob loudly: the gospodyni would not look out of the window.

The cow finally planted herself firmly on the ground with her four feet rigidly fixed, and looked at Slimak with rolling eyes as if to say: 'Look, gospodarz, what they are doing to me...for six years I have been with you and have honestly done my duty, stand by me now.'

Slimak did not move, and the cow at last allowed herself to be led away, but when she had been plodding along for a little distance, he slowly followed. He pressed the Jews' money in his hand and thought:

'Ought I to have sold you? I should never have done it if the merciful G.o.d had not been angry with us; but we might all starve.'

He stood still, leant against the railings and turned all his misfortunes over in his mind; now and then the thought that he might still run and buy her back stole into his mind.

He suddenly noticed that old Hamer had come close up to him.

'Are you coming to see me, gospodarz?' he asked.