Aleksandra Tarnowska To High Heaven

Chapter one

Rysiek did not know where the idea came from: the idea to get everyone’s graves ready well ahead of their time. He had his suspicions, though. His Da might have mentioned it once or twice: not that he’d want to bring misfortune upon the family or anything like that, but it’s good to have a spare grave or two at hand, innit. You do not know the day or the hour, he said, and the neighbours are ready to snatch all the best places while you’re here dillydallying.

That’s what Da said, but Rysiek had his doubts about it. In all of his short, twelve-year-long life, he never saw his father take out a shovel and break the soil before the deceased was ready to go six feet under, nor would he ever worry about the cemetery running out of space for his family’s graves. All this digging-ahead business seemed to be not as much Da’s idea as it was Gramps, whispering his will, unyielding and vehement as ever, right into Da’s ear.

Stach Wrona was taking his time dying. Life sapped out of him drop by drop, slowly and painfully. Old women started to gather at Granny Kazia’s, just popping in, dearie, sure thing. The couldn’t help but peeking at the man in the corner, already getting cold in the eiderdown. Every now and again, they would nod and mutter: ‘Either you get all that bile out once in a while or it burns through you, inside out.’ There must have been some truth to their words because Gramps wasn’t the most expressive of people. For example, sometimes, everyone could see he’s ragin’ mad, but all he’d do was drop on a stool, prop his elbows on his knees and stare right ahead. His blue eyes, glinting from underneath a chin-long white hair, could be looking straight at his wife, shuffling around the room, his bawling kids, or the Saint Christopher picture, hanging next to the wedding photograph, but they saw nothing, nothing at all. In those moments, as old women would have it, bile sloshed inside him, going up, up, gut to heart, heart to lungs, lungs to throat and back to his gut again. By the time he was bedridden, he’d often call Da to come near and whisper right into his ear. While the Lord gave him no sons, he did at least have the son-in-law to learn the grave-digging trade and pick up the slack.

Once Gramps was done whispering, Da would get up and leave. First, he’d stop at Brzózki, where they said the cemetery was the largest, with the nicest graves in the area. Then, he’d visit Zagroble where he got his bricks and cement. Finally, he’d bring it all back to their village cemetery in Tuklęcz.

Sure enough, Rysiek went with him.

They started working on the first of those Gramps-whispered graves in late autumn. The low sky hung there, murky and wet, and the wind swung there and back, reminding them of winter creeping up. Da worked fast, stopping only to tell Rysiek off. It was more of a warm-up thing than real reprimands, though. Before the first December frost bit the air, they were done.

The grave for Gramps turned out quite swell. Ma came to see it, along with Uncle Józek and his wife Stasia. They hummed in admiration. Ain’t it nice, said Auntie. Proper one, added Uncle. Daddy will be right pleased, said Ma. And it’d all be fine and dandy if not for Rysiek and his stupid question.

‘Wouldn’t it look better whitewashed though?’

The grown-ups’ faces stiffened, as if slapped by cold wind.

‘What’s that, you think you’ve got a Kike for Gramps or what?’ hissed Da.

Rysiek didn’t know what a Kike was. He considered asking Granny after he gets back home but it was too late. Once they got back from the cemetery, Gramps was already stiff and cold in his bed, as if the only thing keeping him alive was the knowledge his grave wasn’t ready until now. On his closed lids lay two coins, sparkling. Rysiek didn’t even get to see the body properly when Granny Kazia shoved a rosary in his hand and pushed him outside to go tell the neighbours. Once he got back, the house was swarming with people, mostly women and children, and there were no more questions in his head, just the song.

Mourners’ voices carried up to the ceiling beams, they hummed in the pans left on the kitchen stove, bounced off the foggy window panes. Rysiek crouched next to Ma, right by the wall, and listened, spellbouund. The song coursed and rippled, spilling into the room like Vistula river when it overflowed its banks. He let the songs warm him up from the inside. He might have sung himself if not for the music and its warmth making his lids so heavy. As he fell asleep, he dreamed of singing together with a big, burly man, of singing for  Gramps.

He remembered the Kike thing three days later, at the funeral. He caught the moment when Ma took a break from coughing into her handkerchief. The first lump of yellow soil hit the coffin.

‘Hey, Ma…’ said Rysiek, pulling her by the grey coat sleeve. ‘Ma, what’s a Kike?’

She just frowned, knitting her light brows, and hid her face in the handkerchief again. Then, he shot Rysiek a harsh look, just like she did that last autumn when he cut the tongues out of Da’s winter boots. In his defence, they were just the right size for his new sling pads.

‘Nothing for you to worry about, so that is. Whatever them Krauts didn’t kill just ran away, and that was that.’ She nudged Rysiek to face the grave. ‘Just sing now, won’t you. Or listen, at least.’

And so he folded his arms on his chest and clenched his lips. The song crawled sluggishly on the ground, and even though he wanted nothing more than to sing, he didn’t do it. He was too mad to sing. Even though he knew full well he could keep quiet until tomorrow morning and none of the grown-ups would notice, all of them busy with the funeral, exchanging reminiscences. Truth be told, none of the mourners was really devastated about Stach Wrona’s passing. A sad thing to see the man go, that’s for sure, but at least his suffering was over. The lived through two wars, and that’s no small feat, so it is. Also, the funeral is always a good opportunity for everyone to meet, not to mention the wake and the photograph of everyone attending at the end. One could have a chat, down some free vodka, and wear one’s Sunday best, too.

Da was bursting with pride. As people were leaving, every man patted him on the back, and women, having soaked up some liquor, gushed all over him. What a gem of a son-in-law, they said, such a beautiful grave he made for the old man, did you see, did you see. And fair enough, there was no other like that in all of their village cemetery.

And if not for Gramps and his whispers, and if not for the neighbours and their praise, Da wouldn’t have bothered with all those other graves as soon as the winter frost let go.

And had Rysiek known that once again, the freshly-dug grave was to suck in another soul on the very same day it was finished, he would have stood up to his father for the first time in his short life.

And had Rysiek stood up to Da, who listened to nobody but his peers, he’d be ignored at best. Or, at worst, Da would have smacked him right across that dumb wee head of his. Just like he did now.

As his father’s hard hand landed on the back of his reddened neck, Rysiek staggered and steadied himself on a tombstone.

‘Hold it straight, kid,’ Da huffed through his mustache, black like a wet tree bark,

All Rysiek had to do was pull a string, that was all. For a moment, he crouched, holding the string tight, and watched ants that scuttled around little lumps of mud. Up and down they climbed, skittering about, past grass blades and pebbles. They ran across the grains of sand, pounding a silent rhythm with their feet, faster than a wedding dance. In his mind, Rysiek ran after them.

Then, he glanced at his Da and pulled the string again. The simplest thing in the world, you’d think – just a square brick frame, coated with cement; an empty hole for someone to plant a flower or two nearby – and yet, they struggled. They hardly ever had the time. After all, Rysiek went to school, he was in fifth grade already. And so, afternoon come, there was always something more nagging to do, either a field to tend or stock to look after. Or the weather wasn’t right. And sometimes, Da had to get an actual dead man sent into the afterlife. Those graves weren’t digging themselves. With all that halting them, they were only now getting done with the second rectangle.

The string was tied to the solid cast-iron cemetery fence, wrought in spirals that looked not unlike young bean offshoots with leaves rolled in the centre. Rysiek held on to the other end, right by Gramps’ grave. Da spread both arms along the string, his skin so dark they seemed almost black next to the white of his rolled sleeves; he was marking the width of the new rectangle. He leaned and put down a stone right where one grave was to end and another one to begin. His black hair, laced with grey, fell down on his narrow eyes. Rysiek could never tell whether they were gazing at him peacefully or squinting with the first spark of anger. Da moved his lips, but Rysiek couldn’t hear a single word he said. The boy stared straight into the low sun that rolled down among the willow branches, sprinkled with the first droplets of bright green. He straightened up and pulled the string harder, like a goat on a tether, trying to reach a tuft of lush grass. Rysiek wanted to run to the first flowers and herbs, stretching out into the afternoon sun, sweep the high grasses with his fingers, scratch his skin on the stiff new twigs. And then, to run even further, to the river that lapped on the yellow sand. His feet, hot from running, would be soothed by the cool water, and Rysiek would gaze at the other side, just as golden and sandy on the bottom, just as dark-green at the top.

One day, he’ll stand on the other side of the Vistula river. There, men were so strong that the weakest of them could throw a harrow twenty yards down. Jasiek Grywuł told him that. And women, women made dumplings so big that if they dropped one, it could crush a hen with a dozen chicks to death. And if anyone sang a song there, the music made the skirts whirr and swoosh stronger than the wind.

Rysiek rubbed an itchy foot on his ankle. He’ll see all of it. He’ll hear it, too. And then, he’ll keep on walking, further and further. And everywhere he goes, he’ll tell what he saw and heard to everyone he meets. And he’ll sing. Oh, he’ll sing! And once he learns how to play an instrument, he’ll do that too, ‘till the music slides under people’s feet.

Translated by Aga Zano

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Aleksandra Tarnowska, A voz en cielo

CAPÍTULO PRIMERO

Rysiek no sabía de dónde había salido en la familia la idea de apañar las tumbas de todos para más adelante, pero tenía sus sospechas. Por lo que parece, padre recordó una vez, una segunda, o incluso una tercera, que no quería atraer ninguna desgracia a la familia, pero que tener una tumba libre a mano estaría bien. Nadie sabe nunca ni el día ni la hora, aclaraba, y los vecinos ya están al acecho de los mejores puestos.

Eso era lo que decía, pero Rysiek no terminaba de creer en esas explicaciones. En toda su corta vida de doce años no había visto que padre hundiera la pala en la tierra del cementerio antes de que a uno se lo llevaran en el último tramo, o que se preocupara porque iba a faltar espacio en el panteón familiar. Rysiek no veía que aquello de cavar con miras a la tumba fuera ninguna intención de su padre, sino más bien la voluntad inflexible del abuelo que se lo iba susurrando al oído.

Stach Wrona estuvo muriendo durante mucho tiempo, tuvo una muerte penosa, prolongada. Las mujeres iban a ver a la abuela Kazia, para charlar decían, pero continuamente se les escapaban los ojos hacia aquel hombrón que ya estaba tieso bajo la colcha. Las mujeres hacían ademanes al hablar y cada dos por tres había alguna que farfullaba: “Si uno no salta de rabia hacia el mundo de joven, a la vejez lo carcome por dentro”. Algo de razón tenía que haber en esas palabras, porque el abuelito realmente no era de esos que se enrabiara por nada. Se veía que la rabia le iba por dentro, pero él se quedaba sentado en el taburete, apoyaba el codo en las rodillas y miraba enfrente. A pesar de que su mirada de ojos azules, escondidos tras unos cabellos claros que le llegaban hasta la barbilla, se dirigiera hacia su mujer que trajinaba por la choza, o hacia las criaturas llorosas, o hacia el cuadro de San Cristóbal que colgaba al lado de la fotografía matrimonial, no los veía en absoluto. Entonces era cuando se enrabiaba del todo (eso era lo que decían las mujeres) la rabia la subía de los intestinos al corazón, del corazón a los pulmones, de allí hasta la garganta y de nuevo bajaba a los intestinos. Cuando ya ni se levantaba de la cama, solía llamar al padre de Rysiek y le susurraba algo. Dios no le había dado un hijo, pero al menos enseñó a su yerno y este heredó el menester de enterrador.

Después de que le hubiera susurrado, padre salía. Primero a Brzózki, donde al parecer está el cementerio más grande y las tumbas más bonitas de la región. Después, a Zagroble, a por ladrillos y cemento. Y, finalmente, volvía con todo ese material al cementerio de Tuklęcz.

Rysiek también iba con él.

El trabajo de la primera tumba que había sido susurrada al oído empezó en avanzado otoño. El cielo era gris y húmedo, el viento se balanceaba con vistas ya al umbral del invierno. Padre trabajaba rápido y, cuando paraba, la tomaba con Rysiek más como para calentarse que por algo que había hecho mal. Terminaron antes de la primera helada de diciembre.

La tumba para el abuelo no les salió nada mal, pero que nada. Madre y el tío Józek con su Stasia fueron a ver el trabajo terminado. Chascaron en señal de aprobación. Está bien bonito, dijo la tía. Cabal, dijo de inmediato el tío. Seguro que a padre le va a gustar, concluyó madre. Tan solo una pregunta estúpida de Rysiek echó a perder todo ese contento.

–¿Y si la encalamos?

Las caras de los adultos se quedaron tiesas, como si las hubiese azotado el gélido viento.

–¿Pero tú qué te has pensado, que el abuelo es uno de esos judíos? –le espetó padre.

Rysiek no sabía qué era eso de esos judíos, y pensó que cuando llegaría a casa se lo preguntaría a la abuela, pero ya no llegó a tiempo. Cuando volvieron del cementerio, el abuelito estaba en la cama rígido y frío, como si estuviera esperando desde el otoño a que terminasen la tumba. En los ojos cerrados brillaban unas monedas. Rysiek ni tan siquiera llegó a ver el cuerpo, cuando la abuela Kazia lo envío con el rosario a casa de los vecinos para dar la noticia. Cuando volvió, en casa estaba lleno de gente, principalmente de mujeres y de niños, pero él no tenía en la cabeza ninguna pregunta, tan solo el canto.