Accommodations by Wioletta Greg

Author:Wioletta Greg
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Transit Books
Published: 2019-08-02T16:00:00+00:00

ON THE FIFTEENTH OF AUGUST, Blessed Green Virgin Mary Day, I spend the whole morning washing the confessional in the chapel with Ludwik detergent, then I throw my rag into a corner and sit on a bench by the door to the refectory, near the door’s frame, which is decorated with evergreen and wildflowers, and I patiently await my turn, eavesdropping on the sisters as they debate important convent matters, as the convent fills with the smell of Sister Sabina’s broth. It’s a blend of scents: bay leaves, leeks, celery, allspice, lovage, parsley, lightly charred onions, pepper; their resounding grinding always reminds me of my grandmother Stefania. In August of 1979, as a five-year-old, I was barely tall enough to see what was on the table, but all the same I knew how to milk a cow, peel potatoes and make soup. My grandma would call me into the barn and have me stand by the chaff cutter and turn the crank as hard as I could. The gears would turn as in a music box, and then the chaff would fall into the basket and onto my bare feet, attaching to my cream-stained and blackberry-stained clothing. Dust and husks would swirl in shafts of sun. I’d lay more and more bundles of straw down on the wooden bed, and the chaff cutter would swallow them, creaking thrilled as a cradle swung into motion. That made me happy, too, and I always felt honored that my grandmother would spend so much time with me. Of course, what I understood then as playing in the barn with Grandma I later understood to be an important part of my training to work on the farm.

The mother superior calls me into the refectory. I sit down across from her at the table and stare at the plate of steaming broth with noodles.

“Go on, eat, just don’t forget,” she says with an enigmatic look.

“Bless us, O Lord, and these, Thy gifts,” I recite, thinking she means I mustn’t forget to say a prayer before my meal. “Through Christ, our Lord …”

“Anula!” she interrupts me excitedly, calling me by a name that isn’t mine as she sets a little case with a ribbon tied around it on the table. “Surely you haven’t forgotten it’s your birthday today?”

I look up at her in some alarm.

“… Amen,” I say, and I take a deep breath. Then I venture: “Mother, my birthday is in February.”

“I’m in no mood for teasing now, child—go ahead and unwrap it.”

Reluctantly I pull the ribbon undone and peer into the case, where I find a gold ring with a cameo set in its center.

“God bless, Mother, but I can’t accept this.”

The mother superior leans in over the table and pushes the ring onto my finger.

“Now. Why don’t you tell me why you went to the Grand Café today?”

“Grand Café? I don’t know where that is. I’m sorry, I don’t really know my way around Częstochowa quite yet.”

“So what were you doing all day, then?”

“I spent the morning in the reading room, and then I went for a walk.

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