In the Shade of the Good Trees - ebook

PROLOGUE

This story was supposed to have a very different ending. It carried me for months, as I was taken by familiar currents through familiar waters. Just when I thought I would slowly reach the shore, imagining a friendly pat on my back – “Man, didn’t I tell you that could do it, congratulations!” – a storm came raging. Mad at fate, the world, myself, him and her, I threw a silver fountain pen at a glass wall and howled like a wounded animal.

It is so hard to believe that any of these unpredictable events did not prevent my story from finally reaching the destination, even if in the beginning it was gravitating towards a whole different place. Why, having put aside all the grievances, resentment and remorse, did I decide to say it all – for which I was partially responsible?

I realized that among all the stories that I carry, I have to share this one with you.

*

Standing with his hands in his pockets, he was waiting for everyone to take their places. They were settling down: young faces, rebellious conquerors of the future. In a reflective mood, he started to suspect that everyone looked at him as if he were a burnt tree with that one last, dry leaf about to effortlessly and elegantly fall off. Smiling at his thoughts, he reminisced: nobody would even suspect that having been deeply immersed in this world of prestige and scientific achievement, it was music that filled his heart.

Granted, he might have been a little up in the years, but does age really matter? Not at all! With such a heart, such a soul, mind and body, he was a unique genetic blend of two humans that were connected, high on wine and a balmy, summery Parisian night, by the mischievous fate that mocked all the prejudices, stereotypes and social divisions.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he finally broke the silence, “this is my last lecture.” A gasp of disbelief swept through the audience. “Your reaction is certainly flattering, although I do have a feeling that after you listen to the lecture, all of you – and I know you well – will chip in for a ticket and send me to the airport, begging me, for heaven’s sake, not to come back. Or, at most, to return as a tourist.”

Upon concluding the lecture, as always full of digressions and wandering away from the main topic, when he arrived at the grand finale to underline all the highlights that he methodically headed to, silence ensued, leaving the audience motionless. He intensively gazed at these faces, as if looking for consent, acceptance, understanding. In this very place, where for years he would bare his soul, juggling the abundance of gray matter in pursuit of truth, tackling moral issues along the way, he could not want anything more at that moment. These young people were like his daughters and sons. People that we build relationships with, shape and release to the world.

He closed his eyes for a moment and upon opening them, gazed at the students; slowly, meaningfully, questioningly, fondly, finally finding what he’s been looking for.

Hoping that it was not his mind bringing up distorted memories, emotions and elations that once struck a chord, he wanted to retrieve all the moments that were carelessly overlooked. So he went out into the world. Treacherous fate, however, like a mischievous goblin, managed to stir things up for the professor. Despite his incisiveness, intuition and that whole Philo-Sophia thing that he used to encourage and invigorate young, rebellious minds to think, he had no idea his journey would unfold in such a critical moment for humanity. A moment when separation, isolation and covering one’s face with a mask would be the greatest manifestations of love.

*

Roaming around lifeless interiors, she touched nearly every single thing, as if she were looking at old, discolored photos in a family album; page after page, accompanied by the quiet rustle of parchment. She was wondering what should she do with all of this. This building. This whole inherited estate. At her fingertips, every memory came into focus; here she grew up, dreamed and was then forced to abandon the place. Deep silence made it seem like everything around her was slowly and unavoidably collapsing into a profound stillness, as if disappearing. It could be almost perceived in a physical, tangible, painful way…

She thought this had to be the way that abandoned houses die, burying all the secrets of the former inhabitants, carefully passed from generation to generation.

But this white house with a copper roof was a tough one. Before taking its last breath, it fought its fate.

The history of Joanna’s family home is inextricably linked with the consequences of a horrifying war catastrophe, which like an apocalyptic hurricane violated, destroyed, and moved the territories of many countries, finally finding the acceptance of their recent allies. The Polish borders were moved westwards, while the Soviet Union took over most of the country’s eastern area. The local population, which had lived there for years, was relocated to the Reclaimed Territories.

All these historical maneuvers gave Joanna’s grandparents a significant role in the reconstruction of Wrocław; a city that ceased to exist, a city that World War II turned into rubble. For a long time, they couldn’t get used to the new home, naively hoping that sooner or later they would return to the sacred city of Lviv and all the family graves they left behind. To this phenomenal place, where so many cultures and religions could coexist. Where even rain respected tolerance, fairly dividing the streams pouring down the churches’ roofs into two parts: one supplying the warm waters of the Black Sea and another feeding the cold currents of the Baltic.

As time passed by and hope for a better future started to fade away, Joanna’s grandparents – with piercing melancholy in their hearts – started to slowly blend into their new life, becoming acquainted with unfamiliar buildings, rubble and gothic inscriptions. Józef Lubczyński, Joanna’s grandfather, who before the outbreak of the war had held the position of a professor at the University of Lviv, was part of the intellectual elite. The very same elite that later on lived in suburban homes that resisted the Siege of Breslau. Village and town people inhabited burnt townhouses in the heart of the city center.

Józef, his wife Kazimiera and their teenage daughter Hanna moved into a small, post-German villa. The building, untouched by artillery fire, was located in Pawłowice near Wrocław. Tormented for a long time by unimaginable remorse that they are sitting at someone else’s table and sleeping in their bed, they found solace in the birth of Hanna’s daughter, who was given the name Joanna, and finally felt at home. In a truly beautiful home. Boasting a bright façade, copper roof and an old buckeye tree whose leaves, pushed by the wind, filled the windows with waves of green.

“Mom?” She flinched as Adam touched her shoulder. “Everything okay?” he asked immediately.

“Oh, yes. Yes,” Joanna patted his hand. “I got lost in my thoughts… not that it was necessary.”

“How so? It’s your family home after all, part of your life story,” he started looking around the living room, “the furniture, paintings, great-grandfather’s books… are you sure you want to sell it all?”

“I will do it.”

Trying to come up with a thoughtful way to make her reflect on the subject, he nodded his head in reaction to the decisive ‘I will.’

“Just like that?” was the best he managed to conjure.

“Just like that. Obviously, we’re talking about the building here, not the belongings. These…” Joanna shrugged, “I don’t know. I will definitely keep the books.”

“Don’t be in a rush. You don’t have to make decisions ad hoc. It’s a beautiful house. A unique one. They don’t make them like they used to do.”

“Beautiful, but…” she searched her mind for some ‘but’, “but I feel it’s so neglected and needs lots of help. Oh, it’s not that important to keep thinking about it. Hopefully, we will manage to find a buyer real soon.”

She knew she could afford such harsh words in the presence of her son, even when talking about the place where she had spent her childhood and early adulthood. Its dark history was no longer mysterious to him, even if he had been spared some details.

“Oh, sure,” he nodded, “a whole bunch of buyers. For the time being, there’s only one, the unbreakable village administrator Banaszczyk, who eyed the property even when grandpa was still alive. Listen, mom…” moving one step closer, he raised a hand towards her neck to fix a twisted string of pearls: a gesture from childhood which never failed to move them both, “what about you wait for a while? We could renovate the house and sell it at a better price. Or, who knows, maybe you will like it so much you will keep it.”

“Oh, come on! Keep it?! For what purpose?! I don’t plan to move from Warsaw to Pawłowice, there’s no way I could leave my students and their competitions… it would be desertion! Adam…” she caressed his cheek with the back of her hand, “honestly, I don’t even need the money from selling this house. You and Konrad, though, could certainly use them.”

“Mom, come on!” Adam sighed, looking at this petite, dainty woman whose personality made quite a lot of heads spin. A truly extraordinary creature where the sensitivity of an artist collided with a cold breath of harsh reality. “Speaking of the piano… follow me!” He took her hand and, using a narrow, stone staircase with a well-worn metal railway, led her upstairs and through a tiny corridor. “The mystery room” he stated. “Whenever grandpa chased me away from here, I would wonder why. Why wouldn’t he allow me to go inside?” Adam gently pushed the ajar white door, which opened wide with a creak. “My childhood imagination was a source of abundant possible scenarios. This included a skeleton in the closet. I guess grandpa just wanted to hide this piano from me, but am not sure why. Do you have any idea why would he do that?” He gently placed a hand on her elbow, a gesture encouraging her to move further. She did not do it, though.

The interior emanated the atmosphere of unfinished human history, suspended in the air with the smell of dust, mothballs and a sweet scent of rotten fruit; the scent of oblivion. The room was bathed in dimmed light coming through the grated window. It was Joanna’s father who mounted these iron rods that scared intruders away like the teeth of an enraged beast. He did it shortly after driving her, distraught and shattered, to Warsaw, fearing a man he had never met, yet was ready to kill. A black grand piano with peeling paint and copper pedals dominated the modest constellation of furniture: an ascetic bed with an iron headboard, a two-door wardrobe with a somewhat austere look and the only stool in the room, a wooded Thonet chair with a bent backrest. All of this gave the room a tad quirky, slightly eccentric vibe. A truly grand instrument, worthy of concert halls, standing in the middle of a rather humble setting. How was it even placed here?! The door is too narrow, the window too small.

A minute, maybe two passed when Joanna, relaxing her breathing, dared to make the first step. Then a second. And a third. Pushed by the memories she walked towards the piano. Reaching it, she stopped and gently caressed the keyboard, as if trying to understand or capture something. She sat on the bench, with hands raised and wrists straightened when suddenly she was overpowered with the impression of that oneiric, mysterious presence that came out of nowhere. Her hands dropped to her knees.

“Mom… sorry, I did not know that…”

“Hello? Anybody here?” Someone’s voice from downstairs burst into their intimate moment.

“Ah, that must be Banaszczyk,” Adam concluded, “I’m going to welcome the honorable administrator. We barely placed an ad and he’s already here. This guy must be very determined. We’ll see how much.”

“I don’t want to talk to him.” Joanna said, turning on the bench to underline her decisiveness.

“Sure, that’s understandable. Stay here, I will take care of everything. I beg you to do just one thing: think carefully about whether you would really like to sell all of this. Remember that you can withdraw the offer at any time, alright?” Adam crossed the room, buttoned up his jacket and closed the door behind him.

Again, she was all alone in the room. Sitting on the bench she felt like she experienced that moment of awakening when time plays with the feeling of here and now, leaving us all unsure whether we are still asleep or already awake. She raised her head towards the window, where the tangled branches of the buckeye tree curiously peeked inside. How many years have passed? How many? She went back down memory lane, as far as she could. As a little girl, she would lie in her wrought iron bed and gaze at the swaying leaves, with twinkling, clear stars and a curious moon shining through them, waiting for a good sleep. Good things happen in the shade of the good trees, her mom said once. But when she looked into more recent memories, she reached a point where the old buckeye tree and its tangled branches complicated her life again, bringing so many consequences. And there was this question that roamed in her mind again… If she could turn back time and close the window, or maybe not open it at all, what would she do? And there was her answer again… She would go back to this rainy summer when the days dragged on and the nights were too short, and do exactly what she did: open the window wide and wait. She waited with the very same feeling of undefined anxiety, fear and happiness, among the sounds of the piano and raindrops falling on the window sill, waiting for the good tree – the mystery of life, death and fertility – to bring her not good sleep, but that mysterious presence permeating the room that breathed a new life into her so many years ago. Metaphysically and physically…

*PART I

JOANNA

He drew the curtain and silently jumped from the stone windowsill into the dark room. Turning on the flashlight a dim light traveled across the walls, ceiling and then on the floor. ‘What the heck is this?’ he thought to himself upon seeing an object the size of a bear cage, ‘A grand piano?!’. A hopeless sigh broke the silence when he noticed that the walls were entirely bare, like a shameless prostitute. Not a painting in sight, not even a tiny one. He got so mad! Where is all of this freaking furniture with its drawers and secret compartments? Just this musical monstrosity in the very middle. To the left, against the wall, he noticed a wrought iron bed with unmade bedding. ‘I better be careful!’, he thought. Some sleeping prince could appear out of nowhere and make some noise that’s bound to get him in trouble. In such a situation he would be forced to smack him upside the head. Slowly, he approached the bed. Well… no, it looks like it’s a classic sleeping beauty. The bedding was not only clean; it even smelled like an ocean breeze. For a second he wrangled the thought whether he, a nomadic wizard and a wild pauper could sleep in a place like this. A shiver of comfort traveled up his spine and he could not resist the temptation anymore, finally sitting down on the soft mattress. Trying to avoid the undesirable reaction of any of the springs, he did not move an inch and slightly closed his eyes. It was so pleasant that he smiled under his breath and let out a content murmur. Suddenly he noticed something by the headboard; something that resembled a book. He put the flashlight in his mouth to free the hands and was about to open the rigid, thick cover, when he heard a barely audible sigh and saw the door open. He… she… or maybe it… this whoever or whatever entered the room. He was not sure anymore whether it was a sleeping beauty prince or princess. This someone was not too big but wore pajamas that were too loose and resembled a jail uniform. Skinny as a toothpick, with an unnaturally long neck and short hair that accentuated the flawless shape of the head. He broke out in a cold sweat, as this someone walked past him unfazed, as he sat still on the bed, like a new piece of furniture in the room. Moving just his eyes in the dull silence, with a lit flashlight still in his mouth, he followed this someone’s smooth movement. The book remained in his hands. The scrawny one, not even noticing him, approached the piano and sat on the bench. The moonlight coming through the window cast a silvery halo over an unnaturally impeccable profile with an extended neck. The thief’s attention was averted from this hypnotizing view by three gentle sounds that tingled in the air like tiny bells. And then, upon the touch of these skinny fingers, exploded music so loud that it made the thief uncomfortable, fluttering inside his chest like the echo of an alarm. Suddenly the creature stopped playing (as the thief held his breath for a moment, with the flashlight still in his mouth), lifted itself up and marched past him towards the door, gently closing it behind.

Meanwhile, after having shaken off the feeling and before escaping through the window, he made sure he left no trace of his thievish presence. It wasn’t until he jumped from the tree and landed on wet grass that he noticed he was still clutching a black leather-bound book.

About ten minutes later, a young, short-haired girl wearing boy’s pajamas returned to her room and despite the deep darkness in the room, moved around with the grace of a swan. When she approached the piano so grand, that she looked like a 10-year old next to it, something visibly upset her. Seemingly nothing has changed. Everything was as usual. Empty silence within bare walls. Yet something bothered her. Had someone been there?

It was a Saturday morning in August when Joanna woke up to the sound of a tree branch hitting the window. The rain was ceasing but it was still windy when she came downstairs to the kitchen, where Kazimiera has kept herself busy since early morning. As usual, she wore her red and white polka dot apron.

When Joanna pulled out the chair to sit at the table, a black cat trotted over to her and after weaving a double figure eight between her feet, jumped on her knees.

“Hi there, kitty,” she scratched him behind the ear, just like he liked it, “thanks for the gift”.

“Did he bring a dead sparrow again?”, Kazimiera inquired, setting a plate with a bun before her, “Dear Lord,” she suddenly seemed concerned, “you’re red as a beet, you aren’t coming down with something, are you? Feeling feverish?”

“Not at all! I’m great,” Joanna assured, taking a hearty bite of a warm roll. Last night’s events clearly worked up her appetite, “Today Sphinx brought me not a bird but a tiny mouse. The poor little thing was dead,” she added emphatically with her mouth full.

“Such a dumb creature, this cat!”

“Sphinx is everything but dumb!” Joanna growled. “That’s how he shows me what I mean to him. It might be quite a cruel way to express it but it’s in line with his feline nature.”

“Oh,” Kazimiera froze while raising a glass of water to her mouth, as the familiar sound of a turning key could be heard from the door, “your father is so kind to grace us with his presence”.

“I really don’t like it when you talk about him like this, grandma.”

“Talk like what?”

“You know. Mean.”

“I met Kramer,” Zygmunt declared, entering the kitchen. He took off a thin shell jacket, hung it over a chair and sat at the table opposite his daughter, “he said that you gave quite a concert in the dead of night. Didn’t you?”

“Was he complaining?”

“Well…” he downed half a liter of soured milk, taking big, careless gulps, “was it complaining? I think he likes it when you play,” Zygmunt wiped his mouth and leaned back.

“And I’m telling you, for God’s sake, stop with these concerts!” Kazimiera turned off the heat under the frying pan and approached the cupboard to take out a plate. “You won’t let people have a good night’s sleep. Why don’t you play during the day?”

“It’s not the same. Daytime distracts me.”

“Mama should be the last person to complain about it. Mama’s dear hubby also liked to busk underneath the moon and stars, bringing the great works of culture to simple people just like me in our neighborhood,” he raised his brow as if waiting for a retort.

“I beg your pardon!” Kazimiera grasped a wooden spoon and put scrambled eggs on a plate, which she not so nicely set before Zygmunt.

“What? I’m telling the truth.”

“Listen…” she began and stopped, taking a quick gulp of water to chase a handful of colorful tablets, “I don’t want you to call me mama!”

“And why is that?”

“Because you say it in a particularly sarcastic manner.”

“Sarca… what?”

“Here we go, that’s my son-in-law! With all the learning gaps and shortcomings in upbringing.”

“Thanks for the breakfast,” Joanna pushed her plate away and got up from the chair, “I’m going to my room!”

“Joanna! What about the scrambled eggs?”

“Thank you, I ate a roll and that’s enough for me.”

“Jesus Christ!” Zygmunt scowled at Kazimiera. “Can’t you let it go for once?”

“You shall not misuse the name of the Lord your God in vain, you pagan!”

“Please… please… please!” Joanna ostentatiously covered her ears. “I don’t want to listen to this anymore. You know what?” her arms fell to her sides, “it’s a shame I’m not deaf. Instead of being blind. I’m going to mom!” she picked up the white cane which was leaned against the table and left the room. Hungry Sphinx followed her.

The cane wasn’t even necessary. She knew every bump and every hole on the narrow gravel path, a shortcut leading to the gates of a local cemetery that she would tread almost every day in pursuit of freedom – for among the countless paths in the world, this was the only one she could walk on her own.

Her mother passed away due to a “female disease”. Such was the cause of death that spread by word of mouth among her family and neighbors. The core of a catastrophe that had shaken her world remained a mystery, but she perceived it as something inconceivably terrible. This “female disease”. She was seven when her mother was buried in this grave. She remembered that it was raining that day and actually it made her happy because it made it easier to hide the tears or, rather, lack thereof. Not a single tear was shed during the funeral. She just couldn’t, even though she wanted to. Not for herself, not even for her mom. But for grandma and dad, so that they would have no doubts how much she loved mom. Death was just something so unreal that it did not convince her that mom has ceased to exist. Just like that. Ceased. She thought it would be just for a moment. A second. That mom will be back. She had so many things to do; fix a hole in her white tights, cut her bangs “because it keeps falling into your eyes and you’re squinting all the time”, cook noodles on Saturday. What would Saturday be without milk soup with noodles? But most important of all, it was mom who was supposed to walk her to school on the first day. And what now? How would it be without mom around?!

It was bad without mom. And finally, the tears came. A whole ocean of them, because even if she could feel her mom’s aura, she could neither hear nor touch her. Soon people would start talking that poor little Jo missed her mommy so much that she bawled her big, blue eyes out.

Optic neuritis turned the rooms, furniture and objects scattered around the house into the number of steps counted to measure distance. Outside she was forced to follow handrails, curbs and fences. No matter how hard she tried to find herself in the new reality, she would keep on stumbling over her own shadow, collecting even more painful bruises. But she didn’t complain. Instead of going to school, she would tickle the ivories of the grand piano. At first with a dash of nervousness and anxiety. Then gently, subtly and gracefully. People passing by their home would often stop and listen. Who is playing so beautifully? Little Jo? Isn’t she blind, though?

Her dad drove her to specialists who said the disorder was only temporary and it would pass. But it did not. And then they stopped saying it was “temporary”. While it might have been ten years that she spent moving around this world in darkness, she was able to sense it deeper than anyone else. An heiress to her grandfather’s genes that she could neither willingly accept nor refuse with disdain, from whom she inherited remarkable sensitivity – a source of extraordinary human capabilities. Józef Lubczyński was a physics professor, but he also happened to be a romantic. One that reveled in stargazing. It’s been so many times that his wife Kazimiera saw him coughing, with an unbuttoned sweater, as he chased his beloved Orion nebula across the fall sky with the vintage telescope. She never missed an opportunity to reprimand him to stop risking his health with these useless nighttime investigations of silent stars. The professor, however, admired music the most. When he would sit at the piano, the sounds that flowed not only conveyed a particular melody composed years ago by some musical genius but were also a means to translate his own emotions, mood, a type of commentary to everything that was happening in his heart and mind. He would always return to the same pieces by Chopin, Beethoven and Dvorak, always finding something new in them. These pieces deeply moved his soul and triggered nostalgia.

The dignified and wise life of Joanna’s grandfather echoed widely in the hearts and minds of his students and colleagues. The University of Wrocław dedicated a commemorative plaque to professor Józef Lubczyński; a prominent physicist, who organized the Polish university on the ruins left by the Siege of Breslau, along with a few dozen other scientists from Lviv. Even though Joanna did not really manage to befriend her grandpa, as he passed away when she was two, she vividly remembered the unveiling of the plaque, which made her so proud. Some important person said that history destines people like professor Józef Lubczyński for challenging, yet extraordinary endeavors.

Following her mother’s death, Joanna’s upbringing was entrusted to two eccentric individuals that stood in stark contrast, namely her grandmother (Kazimiera) and her father (Zygmunt). Kazimiera believed in God and all the Saints, reverently kissing any paintings, pictures, sculptures and kitschy figurines that portrayed them. She never hesitated to get on her knees and kiss the floor where holy water had spilled, participated in the life of the parish community, sang in the church choir and prayed the rosary every day. Even though she attempted to live out the ten commandments, she never missed an opportunity to show great disappointment and spite to her son-in-law (that her nobly born, educated daughter once fell head over heels in love with) usually doing so in an extremely suggestive way, resembling a painful and unexpected stick of a pin in one’s side.

Zygmunt, on the other hand, believed in Marks, Engels, Lenin and social equality, and on top of that was a gambling addict. After the death of his wife, Hanna, he drowned his sorrow in vodka and never really got closure to his mourning. When dealing with his mother-in-law, he employed mocking and a corny sense of humor, but Kazimiera was not afraid to hit back. As he would sometimes (oftentimes, rather) walk unsteadily home, she would direct a torrent of abuse at him, comparing him to their neighbor, Kramer. Zygmunt would rack his brain, trying to figure out why Kramer, as the neighbor was abstinent.

“Hammered again like Marian the lush!”

One day, awaiting the return of her son-in-law with a bowl of cold soup, a truly devilish idea emerged in Kazimiera’s mind – to redecorate the space shared by all family members, a small lounge where the three of them would sit on Sunday afternoon, giving the impression of a normal, functioning family. The rearrangement, albeit small, almost knocked Zygmunt off his feet. The walls that he recently painted were now adorned with scenes from the Bible and portraits of saints he didn’t even know existed.

“What is it!” he exclaimed.

“Saints!” Kazimiera snapped back. “Who you should pray to every single day and thank for having a daughter like you do! And on your knees, I should add.”

Zygmunt nodded his head, which might have seemed like humility and repentance, but the portraits of the saints and Biblical scenes vanished on the next day and were replaced with other artwork.

“What is this!?” – the woman was shocked, as all the famous faces representing the communist ideology gazed upon her: Bolesław Bierut and his mustache, bald Józef Cyrankiewicz and Władysław Gomułka with horn-rimmed glasses. All three were surrounded by solid, black frames made of high-quality wood.

“See, mama, these are my saints! But there’s no need for me to pray to them or mama’s saints, because when it comes to thanking for my daughter…” his voice started breaking, “I thank Jo’s mother for her every day. Not on my knees, but here…” Zygmunt beat his chest and a hollow thud was heard, “here, inside, in a place not worthy of neither her nor our daughter. In my rotten heart.”

“Oh…,” the woman rolled her eyes.

Something, however, united them over all these worldview differences, divisions and spite. Joanna was that connection. Together, they created for her a home where she was supposed to safely wait out her whole life as if she were in an air raid shelter. By doing so, they limited her space in nearly every dimension one could imagine.

Joanna, however, was so eager to discover the world that they shut tightly before her that she started asking, and then begging them to at least let her learn to read. Soon, twice a week Mrs. Wodecka – a particularly strict teacher from the school for the blind – would arrive in front of their house, announced by a high-pitched screech of her bicycle brakes. For Joanna, this piercing squeak was the most anticipated sound.

Excellent orientation within the top-bottom and right-left planes helped her learn to read and master all the combinations of raised dots. Fluency in Braille not only liberated her from illiteracy; it also turned out to be her magical potion for independence. To keep her skills up to date, Joanna would pore over thick pages of the Gospel of Matthew, a birthday gift from Kazimiera. It was a unique, huge volume bound in black leather, filled to the brim with dots. Joanna adored the book as she would hold it and wander around the house and garden, read it, open, close and tenderly caress, making Sphinx jealous.

The weather on that day was awful, with clouds hanging low and a morning storm rolling in. Joanna was not afraid of storms, as afterward the scent of tranquility filled the air, unlike the deep sadness that saturated every tiny corner following an argument. As she strode with Sphinx along the narrow, gravel path leading to the parish cemetery where her mother had been laid to rest, her thoughts anxiously revolved around the last night; she felt someone strange roamed the house, but the anxiety neared excitement rather than fear. Finally, something was happening.

Suddenly the tip of the white cane hovered over the ground, making her feel horrible as if someone had deprived her of navigation. Sphinx did not like it either, demonstrating it with a throaty growl escaping his open mouth. That’s how he would behave upon noticing Roman Banaszczyk, who has been following Joanna ever since she learned to walk. Even her blindness did not discourage him. Sure, she even liked him in the past. Particularly when they hanged around the neighborhood from one tree to another, collecting chestnuts to donate them to the zoo. He would pour the chestnuts into her basket and she would repay him with a charming smile. One time she added to the smile a kiss on his radiant cheek and then held his hand. Roman became the happiest nine-year-old on the planet, as he believed that this pretty six-year-old lady loved him and before the blush even left his face he decided he loved her. Joanna, on the other hand, was not even aware of this budding, yet mighty love. She wasn’t even aware that Roman was her sweetheart.

“Good Morning, Jo!” He greeted her with mock politeness, chewing on a blade of grass.

“Certainly it will be good as soon as you let go of my cane,” Joanna grunted.

“Why are you so moody today? You could hold my hand instead of this stick. I’ll lead you everywhere, I would even go to the ends of the earth for you.”

“No, thanks. Too far away.” She sullenly replied, attempting a joke.

“Oh, Jo! Come on. Sooner or later we will be doing it anyway.”

“Excuse me? Doing what?”

“Well, holding hands. But first… phew!” he spat the blade of grass out, “you have to recover your sight. I don’t mind your blindness at all, I mean, you’re so pretty anyway. But my father… well, you know how he is. He wants everything to be the best, his daughter-in-law too. It’s the eighth today, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know, I didn’t look at the calendar.”

“I didn’t look at the calendar,” he repeated, “good one! You sure like to crack a joke, just like your father, right?”

She didn’t answer.

“Alright, it’s the eighth. The eighth! Do you know why it’s so important?”

“What about you tell me about it some other time,” Joanna said, wanting to be left alone.

“You don’t know? Your father and grandma didn’t tell you? Okay, listen! I’m going to tell you. In twenty days, something important will happen in your life. Mine too. Damn, I’m so hyped about it…”

“I will ask them about this important event as soon as I return home. Now leave me alone.”

“Why, do I bother you?”

“I want to pray at my mom’s grave.”

“I will stand by you. Very quiet. You won’t even notice… that is… you won’t sense my presence.”

“Go away! Come on, now!” Joanna said, losing her temper.

“Alright, alright, don’t get so mad. And remember to ask them!”

When he finally left, Joanna sat on a small green bench near a gray tombstone, overcame with a conviction that the twenty-eighth day of August does not hold any good for her.

“Come here, kitty!” Moving with feline grace, Sphinx obediently jumped on her lap, kneading her body for a while before settling down.

Petting him behind the ears, she started wondering what was it that her grandmother and father did not tell her. Does it have something to do with Roman some time ago talking nonsense about their life together? It seems like the youngster has been teasing her forever, with her father always nonchalantly brushing it off and making it clear to stop his pathetic advances. Last summer, however, something changed. He started being kind to Roman and once he even invited him home and offered some vodka or rather got him blackout drunk. Father was fine, after all, he was a seasoned heavyweight drinker. When the old Banaszczyk came to pick up his son, vodka flowed in amounts sufficient to kill a horse but not certainly not enough to knock them out, as the two managed to drag unconscious Roman back home. Two days later Roman followed Joanna all the way up to the cemetery jabbering something about their life together and a famous ophthalmologist. Joanna was fairly sure he was still intoxicated from the previous night. The friendly relation between their fathers was even more surprising, as the two had been rather distant and cold towards each other; it was after that drunken night that their relation bloomed like a snowdrop kissed by a wayward ray of the winter sun.

August twenty-eighth, the sound of it resonated annoyingly in her mind. Instinctively, she felt there was something unsettling about it, but did not ask her grandma or father about it. She’d rather stay out of their sight in fear that they might discover the missing Gospel. Someone took it, and it meant so much for her! She liked having it with her, roaming around the house and garden clutching it to her chest. For her, this unique book bound in black leather was like a jewel box, opened sporadically only to feast your eyes on a diamond hidden inside and gently caress it. Using a red ribbon, she marked the page where the following words could be found: “FOR TRULY I TELL YOU, IF YOU HAVE FAITH THE SIZE OF A MUSTARD SEED, YOU WILL SAY TO THIS MOUNTAINS, ‘MOVE FROM HERE TO THERE’ AND IT WILL MOVE; AND NOTHING WILL BE IMPOSSIBLE FOR YOU’.” She would open the Gospel in that very place, and tracing the embossed quote, strengthened her faith. Not her faith in God, but in science and medicine. The doctors who handled Joanna’s case for years could not understand why she couldn’t regain her vision, so they stated it was time to humbly accept something, which was there to stay for good. Unless a miracle happens and these sure happen in medicine, they would say, awakening hope.

Joanna was a carbon copy of her grandfather; a man of extraordinary musical sensitivity and a deep belief in the phenomenon of human reason. Deep inside she also carried that grain of faith, believing not in miracles, but in the driving force of science, medicine, advances and human thought that will one day move her evangelical mountain from here to there, and colors will flood her world again, she will see Sphinx and the faces of her loved ones.

Irritation fueled by the encounter at the cemetery and general anxiety surrounding the twenty-eighth of August kept Joanna wide awake. On top of that, the room was filled with heavy air before a storm. She grabbed a book and ran her fingertips over the raised dots. Suddenly, she felt thirsty; after completing the sentence, she got up and went to the kitchen. Having returned to the bedroom, she grew weary and slowly closed her eyes. She was floating somewhere between the realms of dream and reality, glancing over the projections of dark shadows in her head when a mighty thunder rolled and resonated in her body. Joanna jumped from her bed and headed towards the window, but instead of closing it, she reached out of the window, trying to collect the cold raindrops in her hands. After standing there for a good five minutes, Joanna, wrapped in freshness, wetness and with her mood elevated, approached the piano and started playing Chopin’s Raindrop Prelude, pouring all her sensitivity and soul into it, uniting with the world outside the window: the calmness, serenity, and subsequent dark, unsettling sounds. All of it was a mere introduction, for it was followed by a gloomy, yet moving memento for the unfulfilled musical feeling of a musical genius; the first tones of Moonlight Sonata filled the space. Not even taking a break after Beethoven, she smoothly moved to a monumental piece that stunned with its raw emotion – Hammerklavier – putting into it all the depth of her emotions.

When she was done, the last chord still hung in the heavy air. Joanna seemed to be exhausted as if music had drained all her energy and strength. Suddenly she raised her head, adjusted her posture and played Dvorak’s Humoresque, her petite fingers creating an artistic vision blending into a rhythm of joyful jumps of a little girl, who occasionally stops in her tracks to gaze at something in amazement. The grimaces, tension and spasms faded away from her face, giving way to brightness.

Indifferent to the view and sounds, Sphinx was sitting on a chair, slowly licking his paw. But there was someone else in the room. Standing in a dark corner, listening and forgetting to breathe.

*

In the afternoon, Zygmunt was roaming the garden. Pruning shears in hand, he was cutting faded flowers and overgrown branches.

“What in tarnation… who broke that?” he stopped underneath the horse chestnut tree, staring at its crown.

“Broke what?” Joanna asked, petting Sphinx who was comfortably seated at her shoulder.

“The chestnut branches.”

“Must have been a squirrel.”

“A squirrel?” Zygmunt looked at her, as if she were dumb. “What on earth are you talking about, Jo?! Have you seen… have you heard about a squirrel as heavy as hell?”

“No, dad,” she giggled in a charming, girlish way, “I have not heard about a squirrel this heavy, nor have I seen one, as far as I remember.”

“All joking aside, this is a serious problem and suspicious. Damn…” he cursed, stroking his hair, “what if it was a man?! Huh?!”

“A man? What for? Why would someone climb our tree?”

“Who knows!” Zygmunt shrugged. “Maybe it was a thief?”

“If it were a thief… Sphinx!” Joanna shouted, turning her head towards the cat when his predatory instincts took over and he jumped down, running somewhere, probably chasing a mouse again. “If it were a thief,” she addressed her father again, “he would probably steal something. Is anything missing?” she inquired, immediately thinking about her Gospel.

“Don’t know yet…” Zygmunt responded, lighting a cigarette, “I’ll look around. But,” he exhaled the smoke,” “if not a thief, then who was it? A peeping Tom? Phew!” He spat under the tree, “Freaking perv!”

“Dad, you’re so suspicious. It doesn’t make any sense, who would he watch?”

“Who? Certainly not grandma! That would be one great perv!” Zygmunt grimaced and with his finger removed a tobacco particle from his tongue.

“Oh…” Joanna’s deep sigh resounded, “looks like it’s going to rain. I’ll get the laundry.” The girl walked past the porch, where the clothesline was hung.

“Jo, wait!” Zygmunt held her arm as she was returning with a bundle of white shirts and blouses. “Sometimes I act like a jerk, right?”

Silence ensued.

“Listen…” he rubbed his nose, “don’t tell grandma about the tree, you know how she is. Panic will start, a heart attack or something even worse will happen.” Zygmunt puffed on a cigarette.

“Worse?” Joanna repeated worryingly.

“Yeah…” the man disappeared in a cloud of smoke, “maybe she will buy herself some lace lingerie! Perhaps red…?”

“Dad, come on!”

“Where are you going? You were supposed to help me in the garden!”

“I was wrong, it’s not going to rain today. I’ll put the laundry in the basket to be ironed and go to the cemetery.”

“Go! Sure, go, complain about me to your mother. To hell with these women!”, said Zygmunt, crushing the cigarette butt with his shoe.

Joanna walked on the winding path in the old, post-German part of the cemetery, with tall and sharp lettering on the graves. Mom once explained to her that it was Gothic script. While lighting candles for grandpa, they would always stroll here. Mom and grandma would discuss some important, adult stuff as she held their hands tight. It wasn’t her favorite moment; she was afraid of tripping and falling on one of these scary, stone graves, and then whoever was buried there would surely drag her in and either eat her or force her to become his wife.

“Jo, don’t be afraid…,” mom would try to calm her down, “the deceased won’t hurt you.”

“And you, mom, did you like these people who are buried here?”

“I didn’t know them. But if I did, then who knows…? I guess I would.” And that was enough; the great fear of a little girl had disappeared.

Loss of sight made it impossible for Joanna to observe how time turned this place into ruins, with all these forgotten and abandoned graves among strangers.

Deep in her thoughts, she suddenly felt a pebble thrown at her back and reflexively clutched her cane.

“Who is it?” she strained her ears, trying to calm her breath.

“Damn, Jo! I have never seen you so petrified!”

“Roman! Why did you do that?”

“For fun.”

“If you think this was funny, then…”

“…it wasn’t supposed to be funny.”

“You know what, you have changed.”

“Changed? How?”

“You used to be different. So nice. And now…? Now you’re rude and unpredictable. I never know what’s going to pop up in your mind. Remember when we were kids? Do you remember?” Joanna enquired, moving one step closer. She looked like she was trying to figure out what impression did her words make. “We used to be friends. Why are you constantly scaring me?! Why? And now…” not waiting for an answer, she lowered her head, “will you be so kind and leave me alone? I want to be on my own.”

“Sure, princess, here we go with the bossy tone again. I will not be taken lightly!”, Roman was bordering on rage, “Because I’m a grown, adult man, do you understand?! And a man cannot be a soft loser. You better play it nice, because you’re at the mercy of everyone else. You’re blind. And I’m not saying that because it makes me happy, quite the opposite. I hate your blindness because it made you forget me. And for your question, obviously, I remember when we were kids. Do you remember, though? Do you remember how I taught you how to swim? Or when we were walking around collecting chestnuts and you held my hand and… God, I was a nine-year-old brat but I suddenly felt the blood drain from my face. And now…” he hesitated, not sure how to express it, “now I’m following you like a stray dog and you keep pushing me away. Instead of me you just pick up this cane and walk around with it as if you were treasure hunting… Wait!” he yelled, grabbing Joanna’s hand when she turned around to leave. “Where are you going?”, his fingers clenched around her wrist, “I’m not done yet!”

“Let go!”, demanded the woman, trying to escape. “You’re crazy. Don’t you dare follow me.”

“Sure, princess!”

With the white cane nervously hovering just above the ground, Joanna was returning home in the shade of trees shivering in the wind. The familiar voice of the radio presenter welcomed her home, announcing Vivaldi’s Summer. She leaned against the wall, absorbing its soothing, cold calmness, while the sounds of the radio – joy, sweltering heat, the melody of a cuckoo’s singing and a summer storm – enveloped her and lifted her high above all that had happened at the cemetery, above all her sorrows.

“Jo! C’mere!”

And here it was. The moment was gone, she sighed and entered the kitchen.

“Dad, you’re drinking again.”

“I drink… ‘cause I want to!’, Zygmunt slurred. “Toasting myself! Not the ladies! And ya… why…?’ he stared at her absently, “why the pout? Ahh! Alright…’ the man nodded his head like a bobblehead toy, “you visited her. Your mother.”

“Dad…,” Joanna pulled the chair out and sat next to him, “do you hate me?”

“What? Whatcha talking ‘bout?”

“Do you hate me because I’m blind?”

“Don’t say: blind!” Zygmunt uttered the words with excess clarity. “Watch your words! You are not allowed to talk like that, do you understand?! I’m asking, do you understand?! I’ll do anything, look, I’ll rip these veins out of my arms. You see them”? as he pointed his wrists toward her. “What the hell am I saying, you can’t see. Listen, Jo. Listen,” he propped his arm on the back of her chair, “We won’t go back to these… freaking quacks who took away our hope! Do you understand?! Hope, Jo! Hope!… If there’s no hope, then… then what, the hell?!” Zygmunt almost broke into tears. “I talked to old Banaszczyk, he has… you know… connections. He made an appointment for you… with a real eye specialist. A guy known world-wide, an American professor, but I will tell you more…hic… once I get better,” he said and slammed headfirst into the table.

“Sure…” Joanna sighed, getting up from the chair. Before heading off to her room, she felt around and found two bottles on the table. The empty one landed in the container, where glass waste was stored for recycling. The second one she tilted over the sink underneath the window and poured the remaining vodka down the drain.

Joanna was sitting on the edge of the bed and started mechanically petting Sphinx who was lounging in the sheets. Someone was here again, she reminisced about last night. He broke the branches, but more importantly, returned the Gospel. What kind of thief steals and returns things? A remorseful one? Did he take pity on a blind girl? How generous of him! And then he just sat in the corner and enjoyed her concert. Did he also watch her in her sleep? Probably. His scent was noticeable, but it seemed to be different than the one accompanying the first visit when he had fled with the Gospel. And what if there were two people? One who stole and another who returned it? The idea seemed reassuring, like a warm, kind embrace. When night fell, Joanna opened the window wide, indulging in hope, mystery and uncertainty. That night, however, nobody came to visit.

Father’s indisposition continued until the next day.

“You’re hammered again! Like that Marian! The town drunk!” Kazimiera kept on whining as she hustled in the kitchen.

“Christ, mama!” Zygmunt winced, placing a wet towel on his forehead. “My head is gonna explode. Show some empathy, please, alcohol poisoning is a sickness after all, why make a scene? Does mama have to yell like that? I had a valid reason. I had something to celebrate.”