Some people told me to go with the Woźniaks, they were a lot younger and they worked the two of them together, while Chmiel was old and took his time. And that with the Woźniaks I wouldn’t have any trouble getting lime or cement, because they bought it directly off the people that filched it from the trains. It was just that I didn’t like the Woźniaks’ work, and on top of that they like to eat well and at each meal you have to buy them a bottle, because otherwise they’ll go work for someone else and leave your job unfinished. Chmiel didn’t drink. Also, whenever he ate too much or he had food that was too greasy he’d get the bellyache and he’d have to squat down a bit to put pressure on his stomach. He said that in the last war he’d eaten some bad herring and ever since then he needed to squat like that whenever he ate too much, or he ate greasy food. But it wasn’t anything he couldn’t live with.
And you didn’t need to keep an eye on Chmiel, he’d check everything himself and remember about everything. When I bought cement it wasn’t enough that I had it, he had to come and see what kind it was. Actually he pissed me off, because it was like he was looking for problems. First he wet his finger, stuck it in the cement, and put it on his tongue. Then he took a handful from the sack, poured a thin stream of it onto his hand, and blew to see how light it was. Then he took another handful on the palm of his hand, spat on it, and rubbed and rubbed. And if he’d at least smiled. But no, his face was crooked as a dog’s tail the whole time.
“What are you even checking it for, Chmiel? It’s all written on the sack.”
“Sure, be a fool and believe what’s written. Then later on the roof of your tomb’ll collapse. You won’t feel a thing, but me, they’ll say I’m a lousy craftsman.”
Besides, if you go to the cemetery you can tell just by looking which tombs are Chmiel’s. Each one of them is solid as a boulder. While the Woźniaks’, scratch them with your fingernail and they start to crumble, because they never put in as much cement as they should. On some of them there are whole cornerstones broken. On some the sides have started to cave in. Or the top plate’s cracked, and rainwater gets in and drips on the deceased.
On All Souls’ Day you don’t see it, because the tombs all look the same. The whole cemetery’s decorated, flowers and wreaths and candles, and crowds of people, so all you can see is mourning. But on a regular day, when the next All Souls’ is far off and the last one’s even further, and the cemetery’s like a tract of fallow land that hasn’t been plowed in a long, long time — at a time like that every crack comes to the surface, every chip is like an unbandaged wound, and each tomb is different from the next like each person is different from the next one, and all together they’re like people that are dog-tired and they’re taking their rest, and none of them has the strength to be embarrassed. The menfolk scratch themselves, the women spread their legs and you could even sneak a look, it’s just you don’t feel like it.
Before the war Chmiel built a tomb for the schoolteacher’s daughter, Basia was her name, she used to sit in the front row at school. She was pretty as a picture and because of her, one or other of the boys was always getting distracted during class and being sent to sit in the corner. In sixth grade she suddenly went away and she was gone the whole year. Then when she came back she didn’t come to school anymore, but instead she sat around in the shade the whole time. It would be summer, bright sun, and she’d be in the shade by the wall or under a tree, with a little umbrella. She got paler and paler, and her eyes were bigger and bigger, those eyes of hers that were blue as cornflowers.
I wasn’t that good in Polish, and our bitch had just had puppies. So I took one round for her.
“Basia, if you have to sit in the shade you should at least have a little dog.”
“A puppy, a puppy!” She started hugging and kissing it like it was the best thing that had ever happened to her.
I didn’t know what was so good about a dog, especially a black-and-white one that was still blind. Father had told us to drown them before they got their sight, or maybe leave just one, because what use were all those dogs. They’d just have to be fed the whole time they were growing up. Then later they’d start chasing after bitches, and get beaten by folks around the village and we’d end up having to look after a cripple dog. You could chain them up of course, but think how much chain you’d need to buy. It was bad enough the cow’s chain broke and no one had the time to take it to the blacksmith’s to get the link mended. And can you even imagine if all of them started howling? The racket would be unbearable. You wouldn’t sleep a wink all night, then how could you get up in the morning and go to work? Let alone wondering who’s died to make them howl like that. Lord, let’s just hope it isn’t any of our relatives. It wouldn’t be so bad if they were just howling to the moon, but the moon’s not always in the sky, while death is always there.
“Hey, little puppy. What’s its name?” she asked.
“It doesn’t have a name yet. I brought you one without a name so you can name it yourself.”
“You name it,” she said. “I want you to name it. I’ll call it whatever you decide.”
“Name it yourself. I gave it to you, it’s yours.”
“Please, give it a name.”
“What’s the big deal about naming a dog. You just call him the first thing that comes into your head.”
“All right, then he’ll be called Szymuś. Would you like that?”
“Don’t ask me, ask the dog. Makes no difference to me.”
“Szymuś, Szymuś.” She started cuddling it again, and blue tears flashed in her blue eyes. “It’s a pity I’m going to die soon.”
I moved up to the next grade, while she spent another six months dying in the shade. The white angel on her tomb has gone gray now and the tomb itself is all rough like old thatch, but there’s no sign of any cracks. The gold’s worn off the inscription, but you can still read the letters as clear as in a schoolbook. “My home stands gaping empty now and drear, My sweetest Basia, since you went from here. Your mother.” What was she, no more than twelve, but when you read it you’d think the whole world had died. I asked Chmiel if he’d made it up or if someone else wrote it for him.
“Who could have made it up,” he said. “It just goes from one tomb to another.”
While on the tombs the Woźniaks built it’s always the same thing, born on such and such a date, died on such and such, rest in peace.
Or the tomb of the young squire. That’s from before the war also. Maybe even from before the schoolteacher’s Basia. He died in his automobile. He’d drive it around the villages and the fields, frightening people and animals, and the dust he kicked up! There were times when after he’d driven by there was a cloud hanging over the village half the day, and people would be gasping like they had the consumption. You had to close the windows in your house and shoo the chickens and geese off the road, and if anyone was heading out into the fields they’d turn back as fast as they could. Because the horses were afraid of it the worst. The moment they heard it droning in the distance they’d rear up. The farmers would have to climb down off the wagon and hold them by the bridle. With horses that were already skittish even that wouldn’t work, they’d break the shaft, snap the reins, then turn the wagon over and run away. Some people said it was a sign of a coming plague. On top of everything he’d be wearing a leather pilot’s cap, and with those big goggles on his eyes he looked like Lucifer himself. That was what they called him. Lucifer’s coming! Lucifer’s coming! Every soul on the road would run for their life. And the old people would cross themselves three times and spit behind them, get thee behind me, Satan.