When I was abroad I’d sometimes visit art galleries and museums. You too? Then you must have noticed that for each artist, the hardest color is the flesh of a woman. Even with the same artist, from one picture to the next. I don’t mean that the color changes, just that there’s a kind of helplessness in the face of that color. So can you say that a woman’s body is such and such a color? Since the color might depend, say, on the painter’s self-doubt? Or on his fear, his anguish, his despair? Yes, sometimes his desire as well. As I looked at the paintings I’d often have the impression that all those colors were unequal to some challenge, as it were. No, not what you think — not unequal to the model. Then what challenge? You’d have to provide the answer yourself, if you’ve been with women.
The sister wasn’t at all shy in front of me, she would bathe naked. Sister, that was what everyone called her, me too. Actually, that was the first word I spoke. Sister. Because for the longest time I didn’t talk at all. I just didn’t. It was like I didn’t know how. Like I didn’t know any words. I was simply mute. In fact, she was the one who taught me that first word. Call me sister, she said. That’s what everyone calls me. Go on, say it: sister. Say, sister. Sis-ter.
She’d always have me stand guard when she bathed.
“You can see me,” she’d say. “But make sure none of the others are watching.”
Wherever there was a little stream or creek or spring, she’d always bathe. Actually we only ever stopped at places where there was water. After all, you had to have something to drink, to clean yourself in, and there was always a lot of stuff that needed washing. Bandages for a start. I helped her with it all. Whatever needed washing I’d carry down to the water, then later hang it out on branches to dry. I didn’t speak, but I understood what was said to me, by her and by the others. Whenever she was dressing a wound I’d hold things for her, take things out of her bag, use the scissors, help her tie the bandage. When she had to wash someone because they were lying there like they were dead, I’d hold his head up, or his side if he needed to be turned on his side. I’d take his boots off, because she’d always wash his feet as well, even though his feet weren’t injured, she’d say it’d be easier for him with clean feet. You can’t imagine what state their feet were in, covered in blisters, sores, scabs, often rubbed to the point of bleeding, infected.
One time we came to a biggish lake in the woods. We stopped there for longer than usual. They said the place was untouched by humans, no one would find us there. It was true, you could even tell from the trees, they were falling over from old age. You could pick your fill of mushrooms, blackberries, wild strawberries, blueberries. And there were birds everywhere you turned, let me tell you. Birds to your heart’s content. Right from daybreak the woods echoed with birdsong. On the lake there were moorhens, ducks, swans. It was the perfect place to rest up after all that walking, catch up on some sleep, lick your wounds, and even forget about the war for a short while. The truth was that I didn’t know if it was still going on or if maybe it was over. No one said anything. We kept trekking about in the woods, avoiding the villages. I remember one time we crossed some railroad tracks, another time we went over a bridge, and one night we spent in a windmill. All I saw was them carrying out full sacks of something and putting them in a wagon. They told me to sit on the sacks. Then they walked alongside, and I rode on the wagon. In the end I fell asleep, and when someone eventually took me down from the sacks we were already back in the woods. Another time we were at some country estate, though only in the grounds. They brought out some food for us, we ate then moved on.
The sister always led me by the hand. Every so often she’d ask if I was tired. Sometimes one of the men would give me a piggyback ride for a bit. In the winter they made dugouts and we lived in them, so the war could have been over by then. At home they always used to talk about how it’d be over by Christmas, or by Easter. Here no one said anything. Not around me, in any case. Whenever they were talking about something and I came by, they’d fall silent. One time they didn’t notice me, it was evening, a bunch of them were sitting by the campfire. The only thing I caught was, Till the final victory. I might have heard more, but I trod on a dry branch and they stopped talking.
Truth be told, I didn’t particularly want it to end. I liked being with them. The sister was like a real sister to me, I grew attached to her, and I couldn’t imagine that we could ever be parted. I could have figured out one thing or another, but I preferred not to. For example, it sometimes happened that a small group of them, or a dozen or more, would all of a sudden grab their guns and head out. They’d come back in the early morning, or the following night, when I was asleep. Where they’d been, I had no idea. How could I ask when I didn’t talk? We always ate better after one of those trips. There’d be bread and lard, sometimes a bit of meat in the soup. The soup itself would be different, instead of being made from a little of everything as it seemed, we’d have for instance pea soup. When it was pea soup everyone rubbed their hands in anticipation. We also ate better when they caught something in a trap or a snare. They weren’t allowed to hunt with guns. Otherwise, we mostly just ate millet porridge. You know what millet is? No? Well, I’m not going to explain it to you, because ever since then I’ve hated millet porridge. Where they got it from I couldn’t say. Just like I couldn’t say where they went with their guns.
One time, from one of those expeditions they brought me back a tin of acid drops, another time a ball, then once it was a game of checkers, and one of them taught me how to play. Then I would always play with him. Another time a book, Andersen’s Fairy Tales. Do you know it? They said that if I started to read, maybe I’d begin to speak as well. Though when they took their guns it wasn’t so they could bring me acid drops or a ball or checkers or a book of fairy tales. I tried to read in my head, because I couldn’t do it with my mouth. I barely got to the end of the page, it was such hard work I’d rather have been shelling beans. Though like I said, I couldn’t stand shelling beans.
I basically couldn’t read, though in school I’d been the best reader. I read pretty well. I liked reading. At home, in the evenings I used to sometimes read aloud to everyone. Jagoda and Leonka were both older than me, Jagoda was two classes ahead of me and Leonka three, but they weren’t as good at reading as I was. The sister noticed one time that I was having trouble.
“Here, I’ll read to you,” she said.
From that time, not every day because she didn’t always have time during the day, and in the evenings we didn’t use lights, but when she could she’d read to me. At least a page or two. Though often her eyes would be closing from exhaustion. Sometimes one or another of the men would listen in, sometimes a few of them. Grown men listening to fairy tales, you can imagine? And partisans into the bargain.
She’d always mark her place in the book with a dry leaf. Later she’d keep the leaf, because she’d say she couldn’t bring herself to throw away such a beautiful leaf. And she’d mark the new place with another leaf. I would find the leaves for her, I’d hunt around for the nicest ones. I often went all over the woods. Then, of the best ones that I’d gathered, we’d choose the nicest one of all.