KILLING AUNTIE
First published in Polish in 1969
by Wydawnictwo Literackie Kraków as Zabicie ciotki
Copyright © 2015 Estate of Andrzej Bursa
Translation Copyright © 2015 Wiesiek Powaga
All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in a newspaper, magazine, radio, television, or website review, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Publisher.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Bursa, Andrzej
[Zabicie ciotki. English]
Killing Auntie / Andrzej Bursa; translation by Wiesiek Powaga.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-939931-21-4
Library of Congress Control Number 2014947421
I. Poland — Fiction.
Contents
REBEL LIT SERIES
Rebel Lit is a new series by New Vessel Press showcasing works of literature that display a spirit of rebellion and challenge. More than merely transgressive, some of these manifest heroism and courage, others walk conspicuously on the wild side; all of the books in the Rebel Lit series are creative works of unusual caliber.
Killing Auntie is the second title in this series. Andrzej Bursa was born in 1932 and died young, at 25, in 1957. Though legend saw fit to attribute his death to suicide, congenital heart disease was what actually brought this startlingly innovative writer to his early end. During his brief lifetime, Bursa wrote poetry and prose in a style that today is instantly recognizable for its bold confrontation with reality through the use of subversion and the absurd. Killing Auntie is just that sort of story. Bursa never expected he’d see it published in his lifetime. The senseless violence, the black humor, the collusion of others (though quite humorously recounted) – all these may be read allegorically, as a commentary on the political situation of 1950s Poland, though what comes first is the literary quality itself. Bursa’s name became a rallying point for young people all over Poland who wished to express themselves freely, innovatively and without political repercussions.
THANKSGIVING PRAYER (WITH A GRUDGE)
You didn’t make me blind
Thank you O Lord
You didn’t give me a hump
Thank you O Lord
You didn’t make my father an alkie
Thank you O Lord
You didn’t give me water on the brain
Thank you O Lord
You didn’t make me a stutterer a gimp a midget epileptic hermaphrodite a horse moss or something from the flora or fauna
Thank you O Lord
But why did you make me a Pole?
Andrzej Bursa
translated by Wiesiek Powaga
To all who once stood terrified before the dead perspective of their youth
1
I LEFT HOME AT FOUR IN THE AFTERNOON. AFTER A FEW steps I stopped. I needed a purpose. Nothing came to mind. I resumed my walk like a condemned man, resigned to aimless wandering around the town. I went out for these long and exhausting walks almost every day. But I always made sure I had a purpose. Chores, visits. Never did any of that, of course. After all, I had nothing to do, no one to visit. But the purpose was there, even though I knew it was a sham.
Today for the first time I realized I had no purpose. I went out without a reason. These purposeless, lonely walks were murderous. I knew that. In summer, when I walked through woods, fields or overgrown riverbanks, they at least had some justification. They didn’t exhaust me so much. Absorbed into the landscape, becoming part of it, I didn’t have to think. I could rest. But in winter the town brought no calm. I ambled around, stopping in front of old archways and shop windows full of cellophane displays but found no solace in either. I appreciated – and understood – the charms of architecture and of the city lights, yet saw no point in contemplating them. I longed for a purpose like a sick man longs for a cure. Held hostage by my own nature, I suffered terribly.
I walked slowly and with difficulty. The downy snow, which had fallen during the day, lay on the pavement like heaps of manna. I waded through them. The interminable circling of the streets was wearing me out. I knew that, overcome by exhaustion, I would soon reach a point when I would think of returning home with pleasure and, barely standing, rejoice at the sight of my window. But it was no consolation. I knew too, that back at home, resting
