Just four more years separated him from his full pension. His only son, Tadzio, would have passed his secondary school exam by then. They should examine him on the Punic Wars or Caesar’s campaigns! That Tadzio caused him a lot of worries. He hated the ancient Romans, and the ancient Greeks even more, on account of that infernal grammar of theirs. He wanted to become a fitter on the railway. That life’s ambition had to a great extent to do with Topory-Czernielica station. Tadzio was now spending his holidays with his parents. At the moment, he was rummaging among the refuse in the kitchen, searching for glass. He was determined to get a bit of glass. When he found none in the bin, he went over to where a small lamp was hanging on the kitchen wall. He lit it, turning the wick so high that the glass turned black with soot and cracked. Then he extinguished the lamp. He slipped a piece of blackened glass in his pocket. Looking around to see whether anyone was watching, he stole out of the kitchen.
In his father’s office the telephone was ringing.
“Hello, yes, speaking. They arrived this morning. Yes, a provisional cadet. I don’t know anything about that. The railway, right, the railway. Hello. I can’t hear you. Yes. The gendarmerie. I don’t know yet. I’ll probably send my family to Vienna. What’s that you say? Nothing like that. I handed over the cash-box yesterday. Well, what did he say? De gustibus non est… There’s no accounting for taste. Of course. Back in ancient times, you know, they… I beg your pardon, I do beg your pardon; I thought it would be of interest to you.”
He was cut off. The senior official at Kołomyja station did not appreciate the Topory-Czernielica stationmaster’s erudition. Especially at such a time, when the world was collapsing and the Russians were approaching, and the military was taking over the railway.
The stationmaster swallowed this bitter pill in silence.
Without knocking, Provisional Cadet Hopfenzieher entered the office. The stationmaster could not abide anyone entering without knocking. Earlier, in normal times, he used to remark to such people that “you only enter a pigsty without knocking”. (Such people at Topory-Czernielica station mostly had no secondary school certificate.) But these were not normal times, and Provisional Cadet Hopfenzieher not only had no secondary school certificate, but as from today he was actually in charge. The sign on the door that read “Unauthorized entry strictly forbidden” had become an anachronism. Who is an intruder now, and who is one of us?
“Would you care to check the inventory with me?” enquired the intruder.
“Certainly!”
They sat down together at the desk and began to check the inventory sheets.
Their work was interrupted by a timid knock. The stationmaster leapt up in annoyance and opened the door. On the threshold stood Piotr Niewiadomski, cap in hand.
“What do you want? Don’t you know you aren’t allowed to enter without knocking?”
“I did knock, sir.”
Of course he had. But what an ass he was! Couldn’t he see that this was nothing to do with him at all; it was about those interlopers who had intruded on the station that morning. They were the “unauthorized” ones who ought to have been forbidden to enter for all time.
All of a sudden, the stationmaster was overcome by compassion for Piotr. After all, this unenlightened Hutsul was one of his own, not “one of them”. In any case, they had spent the last eleven years together. For the first time in those eleven years a faint sense of solidarity with the lowest official in his branch of service stirred within the stationmaster. For the first time the winged wheel on his cap, embroidered in gold thread, felt like the elder brother of the tin wheel on Piotr’s cap. The lustre of the metal wheels dazzled the stationmaster, and the wings fluttered, rustling pathetically. They were no mere emblem now, not just a symbol, but the genius of the railway itself. A glance at the provisional cadet’s collar was sufficient to ascertain what gods he served as a civilian. He was a militarized railwayman.
The lustre of the wheels dimmed and the rustling wings were those of an angel of mourning, mourning a ruined career. There could be no doubt that the war would delay promotion, especially in the case of officials who were obliged to escape with the evacuation. Had it not been for the war, they would have retired with a higher rank, perhaps even achieving gold-collar status. The stationmaster saw Piotr in the same light as his own son Tadzio. The stationmaster was human, even if he did, of course, box your ears.
“Come back later,” he said, benevolently. “You can see I’m busy. I have a little more money for you. Come back in an hour.”
There was regret in those words. The stationmaster was leaving his station. Goodness knows how long for, perhaps for ever. He was attached to it, even if he occasionally cursed it. Wasn’t Piotr Niewiadomski a part of the inventory, just as much as the cupboard where the tickets were kept (the station’s altar), the Morse code apparatus, the signals, the levers, the Wertheimer safe, the scales and the three clocks from the Siemens-Halske works? He was, but the stationmaster would not hand him over to the provisional cadet. He was handing over only inanimate inventory items. Piotr was a living being. And living beings were at the disposal of the Emperor alone.
“Can I go, then?” asked Piotr.
Yes, he could go. There was no work for him to do here now. The stationmaster wanted to do him a favour by giving him one last duty.
“Perhaps you’ll take down the station sign. Take care of the hooks, mind. The hooks may come in handy. Bring them to me.”
Then he shut the door in his face. For the first time in eleven years the stationmaster had given him an order saying “perhaps”. That conveyed a touch of solidarity.
Take down the station sign? What did that mean? Although Piotr was illiterate, he knew all about the significance of the sign. To the station, the sign was as important as anyone’s own name. He knew what the black Roman and Cyrillic lettering said off by heart. He would be able to copy it. Topory was like Piotr and Czernielica was like Niewiadomski. Depriving the station of its sign was the same as taking away someone’s name. The stationmaster’s command shook Piotr’s faith in the order of the world. The whole world was full of beautiful names, flourishing as in a wild-flower meadow. God himself had probably sown them centuries ago. There were fragrant, sweet, pleasant names and there were sharp, menacing, sullen names. Where did the name of Topory[6] come from, for example? At one time, there must have been just forests here, before the woodcutters came with their axes and chopped them down. And was the station now to have its pride and joy, that which distinguished it from other stations, removed?
Something began to dawn on Piotr. The station sign probably had to be taken down to stop the Muscovites finding their way around so easily. Let them find their own way or ask their sympathizers. We won’t show the Muscovites where Topory-Czernielica is.