Piotr went back indoors and packed his little trunk. He included two shirts, a few pairs of long underpants, a towel, several colourful handkerchiefs, his prayer-books (he took them to church, even though he could not read), a mirror, a brush, a razor, a spoon; oh, and his provisions. At the very bottom he placed a handkerchief containing his money, tied in a triple knot. The knots were intended to ensure the safety of 60 crowns in banknotes and in silver. This amount represented his total savings. When he had duly packed the little trunk, he locked it with a padlock.
Yes, it was his trunk, undeniably his own property. Everything he had borne on his shoulders up to now had belonged to someone else. The Jews’ potatoes, the gentry’s oats, rye and barley, the suitcases of the passengers from the city. Piotr was in awe of all forms of property, but subconsciously hated it because it was someone else’s. For so many years, he had to carry other people’s trunks, not even having the right to know what they contained. In their mysterious depths, sealed away with a padlock, he suspected the existence of some untold treasures: gold watches, extraordinary razors. What intrigued him most, however, were the shoes. Perhaps it was because for most of the year he went barefoot. By listening to the faint rattling and rustling of invisible objects falling about in the trunk on his back, he tried to guess its contents. Piotr-the-porter’s back had eyes and ears. He hated the anonymous kilograms on his back more than the people to whom they belonged. He had a particular dislike of suitcases. He preferred ordinary bags, though they were much heavier. He preferred coal, wood and grain. He even liked them. They were honest burdens, sincere rather than sneaky. Suitcases offended him because they were locked, just as we are offended when letters we have to deliver to somebody are sealed.
The suitcases and trunks were of various kinds. Some were made from animal skins, protected by canvas covers, others were made of boards covered with oilcloth, others of woven and plaited wicker with a transverse rod passing through the handles. A padlock was attached to one end of the rod—a sacred symbol of ownership, protected by law. Corporal Durek also shackled the hands of thieves. Piotr often observed the trunks’ owners checking the locks and padlocks. He would on occasion personally insist that they checked them in his presence, as he was responsible only for locked luggage. However, he did find it humiliating that they were locked at Topory-Czernielica station mainly when he was present.
This small black trunk here was his property. Piotr knew the precise contents of his trunk. Like other people, he secured it with a padlock against unknown thieves. There were thieves, yes there were, and not only in Topory. They would not change their spots after that two-and-a-half-hour trial of the end of the world. But Piotr’s sense of ownership was such that his trunk was lighter than any of those he had carried on the railway. It was not for some passenger; it was for the Emperor. It was as light as freedom itself. Insofar as freedom is indeed light.
Going to the station with this trunk did not mean he was on his way to freedom, however. He was taking with him to war the remnants of freedom, the very essence of his civilian personality, the secret part of his outer form, which would be covered by his uniform.
Before he left his home, he had to settle three important issues: what to do with Bass, what to do with the railway cap and what to do with the key to the cottage. He had learnt from other soldiers of the reserve militia who had dogs that you are not allowed to take them with you to war. He didn’t want to sell Bass. So he decided to entrust him to the dubious care of Magda. Dubious, because he thought the girl might neglect the dog. Once again he would give her strict instructions to protect Bass with her own life. As for the cap, after much hesitation he decided to take it with him. True, it would be misappropriation, but he would create a better impression if he joined wearing a cap like this. And as for the key, he abandoned his original intention of giving it to Magda. He did not trust her. She was a well-meaning girl, but unreliable. Who knew whether the war really would be over by Christmas? And if it did not end and the Muscovites occupied Topory and Magda had a key, then goodness knows what might go on in his house. It was definitely better to take the key with him. So that is what he did. What confidence people have in their keys! These cold pieces of iron lying in people’s pockets like hostages, to ensure the safety of houses, cabinets, cash boxes and drawers. We can be a hundred miles from our homes, but the keys to gates and doors accompanying us on our travels give us the illusion that we are still masters of our property. Keys in pockets are like the souls of those abandoned places, which when locked up lose their meaning and lose their lives. Piotr locked up his house with the key, and although the windows almost reached the ground he believed that no thief would break in. He trusted even the Muscovites; surely they would respect locked doors, not daring to break them down with rifle butts. He locked the house containing all his possessions: the bed, trunks, pots—and all his hopes. The hopes could have escaped through the door if it was left unlocked; now they would be secure. When he came back from the war Piotr would find them intact, just as he had left them. And who knows if in the meantime they would not multiply? Piotr Niewiadomski had locked up his life’s ideal, his career, and that wonderful, imaginary wife with a dowry. Let her wait for him here until the war was over. Let her thrive, reflecting on him and their marital happiness to come. So Piotr had locked up two houses with his rusty key: the actual, ramshackle one, half of which belonged to his sister Paraszka Niewiadomska, a girl of easy virtue, and the other—the house of his dreams—renovated, with flower-pots in the windows and a mousetrap.
There was a loud rattle as he turned the key, checking that the door was properly locked. Then, without looking back, he set off with Bass, carrying his little trunk on his back.
It was four o’clock. Although the train was not due until six, many villagers were already making their way towards the station with their trunks and bundles. The women and children were going along to see them off. There were even several carts standing outside the station building; the wickerwork seats were more comfortable to sit on while waiting. Topory-Czernielica station served many settlements scattered across the hills and in the valleys of the two rivers, so a motley crowd had gathered outside the station, in the waiting-room and on the platform. Some Hutsuls still wore their hair long, shiny and greasy, although everyone knew that the army razors would crop it close. The Jews were also unwilling to part with their beards and side-locks prescribed by the Holy Scriptures. The army would cut them off, the army would shave them—well, the Emperor would be called to account for that, not they. They would not willingly perform sacrilegious acts.
The station was teeming. Everyone had arrived much too early, as they felt that hurrying off to war was unseemly, just as unseemly as hurriedly burying the deceased. Going to war is a solemn affair, so a long time should be spent saying goodbye, and waiting. Everyone was in a state of great agitation, especially after those stressful hours of darkness. Those who had been the most terrified by the eclipse were now coming out with the boldest jokes about the end of the world. The stationmaster in his red cap bustled about like a master of ceremonies at a ball, appearing every now and then on the platform and immediately disappearing again. Provisional Cadet Hopfenzieher, the actual stationmaster, carried a sabre, and the Czech soldiers bore rifles. Three gendarmes—the entire gendarmerie of Czernielica—were keeping order today: two corporals, one of whom was Durek, and their commander.
That day, the platform was crowded with people who had never travelled by train before. All the old women had emerged from their cottages, the Wasynas, the Horpynas, the Warwaras, the oldest women and the oldest men had shuffled their way here. Children and dogs chased all over the platform, so that the Czech gendarmes had difficulty keeping order. Even deaf old Wasyl Horoch turned up, moving from group to group, arousing general hilarity with his slurred gibberish. Those now departing were grateful to him for coming to provide a distraction from their dark and gloomy thoughts. They teased him, but only good-naturedly. The men were trying to keep calm at all costs. And to put a good face on things. Some were dead drunk, staggering about and tripping over their bundles, embracing strange women, singing obscene songs, punctuated by hiccups. Some tousled peasant vomited on the platform, to the anger of the Czech corporal. “Ty prase!”— he yelled in Czech—bloody pig!