the line dividing two worlds.
A sunken face in the sheltering shadow of an oxygen tent, cheeks made gaunt by the removal of his dentures: that’s Błażej. And that’s his hand stretched out from under the plastic curtain, groping haltingly on top of the hospital blanket.
Błażej cackles.
“Vooltures, vooltures . . . scum . . . they’re no good . . . all of them just waiting, just waiting, just waiting . . . vooltures . . . .”
Błażej implores.
“Promise me . . . swear you’ll do it . . . my last will . . . .”
Błażej beseeches with his outstretched hand, with the waning whisper of his once mighty voice.
“My last will . . . .”
. . .
Perhaps one should take a good look at Błażej himself, for, although he became a personage in his own right, a man to reckon with, because of these two wills, he was there all along for nearly eighty years. Błażej belonged to Broad Street. Is there anyone who does not know Broad Street? It runs from the bay all the way to the hospital and ends beyond. Although it is the part closer to the bay, uncared for and pockmarked in spots, that was truly Błażej’s street, one cannot avoid looking at the hospital, a huge labyrinthine snail with a green dome and additions stuck on here and there.
When Błażej walked along Broad Street, it seemed as though he had come into the world right there and would also meet his end there. Many people thought so. The organist, for one. He says: “That one from Broad Street. You know who I mean . . . Twardowski.” He doesn’t even remember Błażej’s name nor does he think that anything in Błażej’s life could ever have happened away from Broad Street. And yet he had collected a commission and made some money because of the old man. The same with the lawyer. To him, Błażej was just another case. Only Wieniawski knew perhaps a little more about Błażej and, having won the old man’s trust, he had acquired a burden he had to carry until the very end.
There were two other things in Błażej’s life besides Broad Street: his native village and the steel mill. His village was in the old country—an ordinary, poverty-stricken village amid sprawling flat fields, with a church and a graveyard. The village didn’t even have any orchards, just an apple tree or a pear tree in back of some of the houses. Tillable land was what counted. Everyone there was greedy for land.
Błażej remembered some songs from his village days. A beer or two at the Polish Home bar would bring them all back to him, especially this one:
There goes that girl from Lepowiec,
Her rump wiggling like a ewe,
“What have you got there, pretty maid,
“What have you got under your apron?”
“Do not ask me what I have got,
“Come this evening, I will show you.”
Evening came, but she did not,
She just laughed at him.
But that wasn’t the most important thing. What was important was that in that village he had learned first to spell and later to read and write. There had been a boy there, not much older than Błażej, who had been sent to the city, to schools, to study for the priesthood. Błażej had become good friends with that Jasiek Lipa. To tell the truth, it was Jasiek who chose Błażej as a friend, and Błażej who surrendered slowly and cautiously at first, then totally, with all his heart, even though he did not realize at the time the strength of this friendship. Had Jasiek not come forth first, had he not taken the first step, Błażej never would have dared. More likely, he would have stood to the side jeering. But the other one came first and said: “I’ll teach you, Błażek.” Mother had fussed that no one had that kind of money to pay for lessons. But the other one cared nothing for money. He was full of the things they had stuffed into his head. He wanted to talk, to share, and he chose Błażej. Was it because Błażej was taller and stronger than other boys, or was it because he was an orphan and his stepfather was quick with the belt? No one knows. Mistrustful, but proud to be chosen, Błażej went to Jasiek, and they became like a pair of scales unequally weighted. Strangely, something made them balance one another to perfection. Jasiek would say, “Just you wait, Błażek. Come fall, you’ll be able to read and you’ll write me a letter, too.” And Błażej would reply, “Some day I’ll pay you back. I’ll thank you some day.” He did not know that he was already repaying and thanking Jasiek by giving him his trust.
Jasiek returned to the seminary, and Błażek left the village. Other, more important events rushed by. Youth burned out quickly, and Błażej saw no sense in poking in the ashes. He forgot about Jasiek and about the village and its affairs, too. He was no longer “Błażek” but “Mister Blaise Twardowski.” There was no room in his new life for the village or Jasiek Lipa—or even a memory of them—or any remembrance of that gratitude of long ago or of that feeling of trust, once coaxed into life and now buried forever in the ashes of an abandoned fire.
“What did anyone ever give me there?” Błażej would say. “An empty belly, that’s what. There was nothing to eat there. You couldn’t buy a pair of shoes.”
There was only Błażej Twardowski, the steelworks, and Broad Street. Broad Street, the line of Life on the open palm of the city. It begins near the bay, where Błażej had landed. First it runs straight and even, then it rises, climbs higher and higher, passes by the Polish Home and its restaurant, past the bank and the pharmacy. If one should climb to the top floor or, even better, to the roof of St. Stanislaus Church, one could see the steelworks from there. Walking along Broad Street Błażej would think: “This is where I used to take the bus, on this corner. But the guys that rode with me, they’re not here no more. They went away or died.” At the steel mill, Błażej had worked at sheet rolling. It took a strong man, but the pay had been good.
Just beyond the pharmacy, Broad Street rises steeply. Błażej never went past that point. He would grow short of breath, tire easily, and, anyway, why should he go there? Past that point Broad Street lost its familiar face. The city comes up from the left and gobbles it up greedily, and the hospital guards it on the right, squatting firmly, clinging to the street and barring any personal feeling, any special pacts between Błażej and Broad Street. Błażej always avoided that section of the street, though he knew that some day, helpless against the city’s greed and the hospital’s stony indifference, he would have to travel the whole length of the street. At the very end of Broad Street there is a cemetery. Its gravestones, half a century old, glow white from afar, if one has time to look that way in passing, when there are so many other things to look at, things far more important.
Błażej had no home, just a squalid little room in a garret. Broad Street was his home. He ruled it like a squire. He’d come to the bar at the Polish Home and say:
“Hey, you there, lock the door. I pay today. Only those I want here can come in.”
On those days, if anyone Błażej did not like dared to barge in . . . with a kick in the pants, out he went. Błażej liked to fight and he was very strong. There was a man to look at! Later, when Wieniawski first met him, Błażej had changed. But one could still sense in him a tremendous strength, though now faint and subdued with age. His shoulders were still broad, but they were like two wilting leaves ready to fall with a stronger gust of wind, terribly tired of fluttering and of feigning a life that was no longer in them, though they still clung to the branch and seemed to draw its sap.
Broad
