beer’s on me,” Błażej called to the barman. “For anyone who can make out this letter.”
Some came right over, bent their heads, passed the letter from hand to hand, and spelled out each word laboriously.
“It’s some Gienia that is writing you, Twardowski,” they concluded.
“Bolanowska?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s my late sister’s girl. Well? What’s she got to write about?”
“In the first words of my letter I advise my beloved uncle that I am alive and in good health, which is also what I wish for him . . . .”
“Stupid!” Błażej pounded the counter with his fist. “To waste all that money to write such foolishness! What else?”
“She writes that the government wants to take your land away and that it’ll be necessary to go to court . . . .”
“Damn them!” Błażej rose to his feet. It suddenly came to him that he still owned a piece of land in the old country, inherited after his father’s death. He never had given it a thought. Only now. That’s right . . . he owned a piece of land, and now they wanted to take it away from him.
“What should I do?” He turned to the barman. “How can I save it?”
The letter, now crumpled and beer-stained, passed again from hand to hand.
“She writes she needs money to pay the lawyer.”
“What can I do? What can I do?” whispered Błażej.
He looked helplessly around the dim bar, but his thoughts were far away. The land. How was he to save it? What was he to do? There was only one thought in his mind: not to give up the land, not to let it go, to keep it.
“Thieving sons of bitches, vooltures, they got at me even here, they want to take my land!”
And there he was already, spread-eagled on that land, his long arms stretched out, nails dug deep in the loam, defending the land. He remembered how once, long ago, a man killed his neighbor because he had plowed over his path. Even kinship did not matter. For land, a man would crack his brother’s skull wide open. And those strangers aimed to take his land. His own land, his patrimony.
“What should I do?” he moaned. “How can I save it?” He never stopped to think why or for whom he should be trying to save that piece of land that he had never wanted to see again, that surely he would never see again. He felt as if someone were tearing out his vitals, slicing his belly open, and murdering him. He was fighting for his very life—for land. His legs trembled, and his body felt clammy with sweat.
“What should I do? Tell me what to do.”
“Why don’t you try and talk to Wieniawski about it? Maybe he can help.”
“Give me back my letter.”
He smoothed out the sheets, folded the letter, slipped it into its envelope, and without further ado went to Wieniawski’s office to seek help.
. . .
Stefański the organist jumped up from behind his desk.
“What’s the matter with you? Are you coming in or not? It must be a dozen times you’ve opened that door.”
Hesitant, Błażej stood in the doorway, looking the place over.
“I want to see the one who can send money to the old country.”
“Which one? Perhaps I can help you?”
Błażej walked in. He looked at Stefański suspiciously.
“You wouldn’t be Wieniawski, would you?”
“No,” said the organist. “If you want to see Mr. Wieniawski you’ll have to wait.”
“A miser,” he thought. “I know the kind. I won’t make a buck off him, anyway. If he wants to wait for Wieniawski, so much the better.”
Błażej took no offense. Slowly, he began to feel a bit more sure of himself. Crossing the threshold had been the worst of it. “I know that man from somewheres,” he thought, looking at Stefański bent over the papers on his desk.
“You’re just from the old country?”
The organist gave a start. “Why?”
“Nothing. Just thought maybe you came over a short while ago.”
“It shows, huh? Do I look different?”
“You talk different. Where did you come from?”
“Warsaw.” He sighed. “Just sit there and wait. I’m busy.”
Błażej turned away, but he did not sit down. He was standing against the map on the wall, his shoulders hunched, his hand exploring his pocket to see if the letter was still there.
“When did you come over here?”
“Anything else you’d like to know? Why don’t you mind your own business?”
“Seems to me like you must be that new organist over at St. Agnes . . . .”
“So what?”
“Nothing. Heard people say he came over recently.”
“Can’t you stop talking? I got work to do.”
The truth was that Stefański—the Party’s prize pupil, the pride of the People’s Republic, the flower of the new communist elite, the respected and admired official—had chosen freedom.
Błażej took out a half-smoked cigar, stuck it between his false teeth, smacked his lips, and lit it up.
“Well, then . . . How are things over there now?”
Stefański looked at him with bloodshot eyes. “Can’t you see I’m working? How can they be? Bad.”
“It’s better over here?”
“If only I could, I’d go back. I’d just as soon leave the United States. What sort of life can one have here? . . .”
Wieniawski walked in briskly. “You want to see me?” He glanced at Błażej. “Just a moment, I’ll be right with you. One second.”
Without taking off his coat, he went inside, behind a plywood partition that separated the attorney’s office.
“Where is Dekrocki?” he called out. “Mr. Stefański, hasn’t Dekrocki been here at all?”
“No, sir, he hasn’t been here today.”
“Where in blazes does he keep himself? Why doesn’t he mind the shop?”
Hanging up his hat and
