Antek was pretty good, he didn’t mow as evenly as father yet, but it was like he moved the scythe even faster and drew it back even shorter. The thing was, though, he’d get mad at the slightest thing. It was enough for the crop not to be standing up straight, or he’d prick himself on a thistle. He never had the patience to get to the end of the swath in one go. He’d always have to take a break even if just for a minute, look around at the field and the sky, or go get a drink of water from the standpipe, because he was always too hot. But for whatever reason, father never hurried him up. The only thing he’d say occasionally was:
“Don’t drink so much water, it’ll take away your strength.” Or when he heard from the sound Antek’s scythe was making that it had gotten blunt, he’d tell him:
“Sharpen it up a bit.”
This played into Antek’s hands. Because even though he never knew by himself when the blade needed sharpening, he liked sharpening just as well as drinking water or staring at the field and the sky. He was better at sharpening than he was at mowing. The whetstone moved in his hand like he was whipping a cut branch, and sparks would fly from the scythe. Father’s face would light up when Antek was honing his scythe. He’d act worried and warn him in a good-natured way:
“Don’t let those sparks fall on the hay, Antek. We wouldn’t have time to stomp them out. And other fields would go up after ours. Field boundaries don’t mean a thing to fire, what’s mine and what’s yours.”
Maybe Antek was pulling the wool over father’s eyes with all the sharpening. Or father was waiting till Antek grew up and got as strong as he could, then he’d tell him if he’d gotten to be a better mower than me, or the other way around, and what kind of mower he was going to be.
For the while it was obvious the best mower one day would be Stasiek. The first time Stasiek picked up a scythe, right away he planted his feet apart like father did. He spat on his hands like father did. Just like father, he moved evenly, one step after another. He didn’t take a break till he got to the end of the swath. And he was no taller than the rye.
Though what’s the sense in wondering which one of us would have been the best mower. You’d have to live your life and then see. And there never was a harvest all four of us worked together. There’s no telling how it would have been if one of us had been mowing right behind the next one, then the third and the fourth. Michał, Antek, Stasiek, me, and if we’d all mowed the rye or the wheat on the same day, at the same time, under the same sun. Father could have been the judge.
“What was my life even for,” he’d sometimes complain. “Four sons, I thought when death comes I’d ask to be carried out onto the land and you’d all be standing there with your scythes ready to mow together. And I’d say, I’ve had a happy life. Thank you, God.”
Because one Sunday afternoon Stasiek came home from the village and like Antek a few years back, he said he was leaving.
“Where to?” asked father. He thought maybe Stasiek was off to a dance in Bartoszyce or Przewłoka. Maybe he had a girl and he didn’t know how else to say it.
“I’m going away,” he said.
“You’re going away as well?” Father sounded surprised, but he didn’t fully believe it yet. “Away to where?”
“To Poland,” Stasiek answered rudely, though he’d never spoken to father that way before. He always liked spending time with father, going places with him and talking with him.
“Poland,” father repeated, like he couldn’t quite figure out where it was. “That’s a big place. It’s easy to get lost there if you’ve never been. How will you get back?”
“I’m never coming back.”
“Never coming back?” Father was still calm. “So what are you going to do in this Poland of yours?”
“I’m going to build it.” Stasiek’s hackles were up.
“We were supposed to build new cattle sheds,” said father, not giving up. “We already got nearly all the materials. The bricklayers are coming in.”
“Never mind cattle sheds. These days Poland’s more important. You should go read about it, father. There’s an announcement on the firehouse wall. They talked about it on the radio as well. We’ve all signed up, the Tomalaks’ Antek, Bronek Duda, me …”
Father didn’t let Stasiek finish. He jumped up and ran to the door. He stood on the threshold, spread his arms, took hold of the door frame, and in a trembling voice he shouted:
“You’re not going anywhere! I won’t let you! I’ll kill you before I let you go! I’d rather get sent to hell! I’d rather die than let you! Why I am being punished like this, God?”
Stasiek burst into tears. Mother was already in bed, she started snuffling as well. And father just stood there blocking the door with his arms, furious, his hair all messy, his face screwed up, shouting:
“I won’t let you! I won’t allow it! You were supposed to be a farmer! We were supposed to buy more land! God meant for you to stay! Your Poland is here. Nowhere else! Nowhere!”
His hands slowly began to slide down the door frame, though he seemed so angry he was about to rip it out of the wall. Maybe he’d bring the whole house down with it and bury his misfortune. His voice softened. The words came with more and more difficulty, it was like they were getting more helpless. He wasn’t shouting now, just moaning. In the end he sank down on the threshold, lowered his gray head to his chest, and cried.
Mother dragged herself out of bed and slipped her skinny feet into her clogs. She tied her apron on and started busying about.
“You’ll need a couple of new shirts. But don’t wear one longer than a week or it’ll be hard to wash. Maybe you could take your father’s sleeveless jacket. Otherwise you’ll get cold. Away from home a sweater would be better. But you’ve grown out of yours, and there are holes in the elbows. Or we could buy something for you and send it on. You’d just have to write and tell us where you are. Here, you can have Antek’s old winter socks. They’re perfectly fine, I’ll just darn the heels for you. They might laugh at you if you wore footcloths. I’m giving you this little pillow so you’ll have something to lay your head on. Maybe you should take half a loaf of bread? Your own bread is always your own. You never know what you’ll get out there. Here’s a couple heads of garlic. If you catch cold, chop it up fine and spread it on a slice of bread. And here’s some onion, if you get hungry you can fry it up or just eat it raw with some bread. There’s a piece of bacon fat in the pantry, you can take that too. We’ll be fine. I ought to give you a pat of butter, but I haven’t got anything to make it with, one cow’s calving and the other one’s not giving milk, we barely get enough to add cream to the soup. I’m giving you some sage in case you get the toothache. Here’s horsetail for if you get a nosebleed, it’ll stop it right away. Here’s some linden flower. And chamomile for your throat. Make an infusion and gargle with it if it gets sore. We can’t give you any money because we don’t have any ourselves. Unless we borrowed some. Or Szymek, you give him some if you’ve got a few zlotys. We’ll make it up to you. And here’s a prayer book. Pray once in a while if things get bad for you. Always go to mass on Sunday. I’ll pray for you here as well. Write to tell us how things are for you out there in the world. And come back when I die.”
It was a good six months before he wrote. We were already thinking something had happened to him. Mother was so worried her health got even worse. Father was all dejected, he didn’t have the will to do anything. When Stasiek finally did write it was only a couple of sentences, that everything was fine, he was working and studying, how was mother’s health, and that he’d visit soon though he didn’t know exactly when. But he never did visit. He just sent a photograph. He looked gaunt and skinny, he was wearing a cap like a forage cap. He hardly looked like the old Stasiek at all. Mother had me wedge the picture in the frame of the Our Lady that hung over her bed, and she gazed at him as she faded from day to day.