I dug away any old how, thinking the whole time about how I could get away, because death was galloping full speed toward me. Zioło from Bartoszyce was digging opposite me. Tears were already rolling down his cheeks and he was sniffling like a child. But if I just started running and headed for the woods I wouldn’t even make it to the trees, the first shots would get me. It was no more than ten or fifteen yards to the edge of the woods. But those sons of bitches were standing right behind us, in a row, with their guns in our backs. I even heard one of them fart. I thought it was one of the guys out of nerves, but the smell definitely came from behind, it was like sour turnip.
I began to lose hope, because the pit was getting deeper and deeper. Everyone was whispering their prayers, you could tell from their lips, and every now and then you could hear the odd word over the rasp of the spades.
“What do you think you’re doing? Dig properly.” It was Antos to my left suddenly telling me off. I looked over. What was he saying that for? I always thought he was a smart guy, but fear had obviously made him stupid. At the same time I glanced at Kuraś, who was digging to my right. It took me aback, it was like I’d never noticed he was so short, even though I’d known the guy for years and I knew how small he was. But so what if he was short. It had never mattered. One man grows tall and another one’s short, in the village you don’t see it somehow, it’s just how God measures things out. Besides, it often happens a little guy like that is stronger than a big one, and smarter. I thought to myself, God must have sent him to me, and on my right side too. If he’d been big like Antos there wouldn’t have been any sense in even trying. I kind of felt bad for him, but they were going to kill him anyway, so he wasn’t going to be out for revenge, while me, I might save myself.
It was only right though, to pray for his soul. So I started, but more in my thoughts than on my lips, so he wouldn’t see. Forgive me, Antoni, may the earth lie lightly on you. Don’t hold it against me that I made use of your death to escape. Just think how many of us are about to die, and every death a wasted one. Only your death will serve a purpose, Antoni. And if I make it, I’ll take revenge for all of you, I promise. Look down from heaven and count every one of those bastards as I’m taking them out. Because each one of them will be partly for you. I promise, Antoni. Lord Jesus, who art in heaven, receive Antoni Kuraś, and not just his soul, but his body too if you can. Because even though he died in the woods, not on the cross, it’s still a crucifixion just like yours. And forgive him all his sins, or give them to me and they can be mine till the end of my life and till the end of the world. Punish me for them, and save him. Antoni Kuraś is his name. Don’t forget, Lord. And don’t get him mixed up with anyone else. May he not have to wander around the woods for a long time after he’s dead. Farewell, Antoni.
I grabbed him under the arms, he was light as a feather, and I threw him onto the soldier that was standing behind me. The soldier fired off a short burst then they both fell to the ground. Him underneath and Kuraś on top of him, already dead. First off they thought Kuraś was the one trying to run away, before they realized it was me I’d reached the nearest oak tree and gotten behind it, and it was only then they started firing and chasing after me. But beyond that oak tree there were more oaks, beeches, spruce, the whole forest. Plus, death was driving me along and I was running like a stag, dodging between the trees till they hid me completely. Though for the longest time it felt like they were right at my back, I could hear them running through the woods and shouting, and their bullets kept zinging around me.
I must have kept running for a heck of a long time, because I could barely breathe, I felt a stabbing pain in my chest, and it was harder and harder to swerve around the trees. I kept crashing into some obstacle, I’d fall over and get up, but it was all I could do to stay on my feet. Then I smashed into something again, fell over again, and this time I didn’t have the strength to stand back up. Fortunately I couldn’t hear anyone chasing me or shooting at me, all I could hear was silence surging through the woods. But I didn’t want to live so much as just sleep and sleep.
All of a sudden I felt a twinge in my left side. I reached my hand down, and it came back covered in blood. The sleepiness passed instantly. I rolled my jacket up and saw that a part of my side had been almost completely shot away. There were lumps of half-dried blood in my torn shirt, blood all around my belt, and the leg of my pants was soaked in blood all the way down to the ankle. Though I hadn’t even felt I’d been hit. I tried to stop the blood with my hand, but it kept running through my fingers. I struggled to my feet and set off again. But which way should I go to find people? Suddenly the woods spun around me like a merry-go-round, my eyes went dark, and I had to lean against a tree. I thought I heard a rooster crowing. I figured maybe I was dying and I was imagining things. But no, I heard it again, and it sounded like it was right close by, just beyond the trees. So I dragged myself that way, either holding on to the trees or on all fours. After a few yards, in a gap in the trees I saw a cottage with a roof of golden-colored shingles, smoke rising from its chimney. I passed out.
When I came round, a mongrel dog was standing over me yelping like I was a dead body. A farmer was walking toward me from beyond the trees, carrying a pitchfork at the ready like he was about to stick it in me, and at each step he was asking the dog:
“What is it, Mikuś? Whatcha got there?”
He wanted to hitch up his wagon and go fetch the healer right away, because neither him nor his wife believed I’d live, I’d lost so much blood. But I refused, let what was going to happen happen, the healer might turn out to be a snitch and I’d have run away in vain.
Luckily the bullet hadn’t lodged in the wound. They washed it with moonshine, then they applied compresses of horsetail and coughwort in turn, and after a few days the bleeding stopped. After that they just put on badger fat, and slowly, slowly it started to heal. But the most useful thing of all was that I munched on carrots like a rabbit, that helped to make new blood. I’d sometimes eat half a basketful in a single day. Plus the farmer’s wife grated carrot into a juice for me, and gave me boiled carrots for dinner. I ended up all yellow from the carrots, not just my face but my arms and legs and even my fingernails turned yellow, like I was covered in wax. My teeth, I had to clean them with ash to get rid of the color. So when I finally went to visit father and mother to show them I was still alive, a good few months had passed by then, father’s first words were:
“Why’re you all yellow? Are you really alive? Is it you or your ghost? We already mourned for you. We went gray because of you. But why are you all yellow?”
Mother sat up from her pillows and burst into tears. She couldn’t get a word out at first, it was only when the crying eased off a bit that she defended me against father.
“What do you mean, yellow? He’s thin and pale. Dear Lord in heaven. He’s not yellow, he looks like he’s just been taken down from the cross. You must be hungry, son? I’ll heat something up for you. There’s dumplings left over from dinner. I said so many prayers for you after they told us you were killed.” She burst out crying again.
But father wouldn’t give it up:
“Sure he’s yellow. There’s nothing wrong with my eyes. He’s yellow as can be.”
“It’s from the carrots,” I said.
At that moment he looked at me like I was making fun of him and suddenly broke off. He sat down on the bench, rocking and staring at his own bare feet. I was a bit surprised, because how could he have known I was yellow, it was dark in the house, the lamp was turned way down and there was no more light than you’d have from sunlight shining through a knothole, plus I wasn’t all that yellow by then. Maybe he didn’t believe it was me, but he felt it wouldn’t be right to ask, is that you, my son Szymek, that they killed, so he just asked me why I was so yellow.