A Warsaw Chronicle by Carol Hebald

Author:Carol Hebald [Hebald, Carol]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Regal House Publishing
Published: 2018-09-03T16:31:21+00:00

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3 Falanga: Polish fascists under Boleslaw Piasecki, who sold his services to Stalin.

Chapter Eleven: Marek’s Diary

December 15

“You bought Karolina that round-trip ticket!” accused Papa tonight at dinner.

“How? I did not; I didn’t!” I swore with the sincerity of the falsest witness. And because I wouldn’t waver, he locked me like a child in my room, where to myself alone I confessed I knew from the start, even before I’d asked Papa, that Karolina had misplaced those coupons. The day I went to return them, I waited a long time at her door. When stupidly I fumbled the lock and heard her cry out, “Who’s there?” terror froze me to the bone. I dashed downstairs before she could accuse me of burglary.

Then, two days later in the park when I told her my mother was dead, the lie burst out like truth. I didn’t even think. The lie was inadvertent because in a sense it was the truth. If I had only said that, if I had told her then, how for the merest trifle Papa would whip her with his strap, methodically, sluggishly, even sleepily, allowing her screams first to enrage him, then to excite him. It makes me sick to remember. He whipped out the soul from her body. Once in our Krakow flat, “We don’t care to live, do we?” she asked me. I couldn’t tell her yes, I did want to. I wanted sometimes to play. If Karolina knew that, she’d understand why I lied. I want to tell her now, to make things right between us. I can’t wait for Thursday. Thursday is too far away...

I just woke up from a dream: It was Sunday morning in Lawrence, and Karolina and I were alone, breakfasting in her garden, watching the birds take their baths. A sign hung in her window: “We are at home on Sundays. Kindly leave us alone.” Her garden was several shades of green: cucumber green, camellia leaf green, apple-green. Suddenly the day grew dark and the rain began to fall. We lay in the sheltered grass under an awning just for us. She took my face on her belly and fed sweet beef into my hungry mouth. I kissed her hands. I was telling her something. I couldn’t stop talking. She looked at me strangely, then she smiled. She felt awfully ashamed that I was kissing her hands and tried to draw away. Then she started laughing from shame.

I’ve been digging into the Psalms, anything at all, so long as it’s full of praise and rejoicing. If the suffering endured in one’s life transforms itself into a sanctuary of the soul, my childhood was a blessing. The teachers of my shame I’ll thank for my ambition; let them love me from the distance of the page. Whatever serves my work, as long as she will love it. It, me: what’s the difference? Wonderful pen, speak lightly. Penned thoughts are an act of faith.

December 16

My punishment ended this morning.

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