Or in the resistance, seven times I was wounded. Once I thought I was already in the next world. I got hit in the stomach. When I opened my eyes I was actually surprised it was exactly the same woods, the same sky, that a skylark was singing somewhere up above. A skylark, okay, why shouldn’t there be skylarks in the next world. Except that not far away there was a village in flames. Cows were lowing there, a baby was crying, someone was wailing, Jesuuus! And way far away in the distance a farmer was plowing. He didn’t look like a farmer from this world but like the soul of a farmer, because he wasn’t looking in the direction of the fire, he didn’t hear the shouts or the howling and moaning, he was just bending over his plow and plowing. I didn’t know which world to believe in, this one or the next. Truth be told, I didn’t really feel much like coming back to this world. But the next one just seemed like a continuation of this one. Till I felt that I was lying soaked in blood, and that the lark above me was a lark from earth. Though I wasn’t glad about it at all. It felt like I’d died in the next world and I’d come to this one to live.
I figured it’d be almost fall before I got out of the hospital, maybe I’d be home after the potato lifting. Because I wasn’t in any kind of a hurry. For what? I was just a bit worried about Michał. But they told me he was getting by more or less. One day this person would bring him something to eat, another day someone else. The people from the farmers’ circle were supposed to take in the harvest for me, or if not them, the neighbors. As for the potatoes and the beets, someone would agree to do them in return for a third of the harvest, that was what I was offering.
Except that one day the doctor came. He told me to get out of bed and walk up and down across the ward, with sticks and without. He said he ought to keep me in till the fall, but he knew, he knew I’d want to be getting home for the harvest. So they discharged me, I just had to come back for checkups. I was going to tell him there wasn’t anything I particularly had to rush back for, that the farmers’ circle would take in my harvest for me and if not the neighbors would do it, like they’d done the previous two years. It wasn’t as if I was about to pick up a scythe myself from the get-go. When you’re working with a scythe your legs need to be as healthy as your arms. Mowers even say that with proper mowing, you use your legs and your back, that all your arms do is swing back and forth. But I didn’t say anything. I thought, you’ve been through umpteen harvests and now all of a sudden you’re going to try and get out of one, and here in front of a doctor. There were plenty of men on the ward who dreamed of getting out for the harvest, at least one last one before they died. Just to touch the spikes of wheat with their living hand, maybe see the mowing one last time, take a look at the fields, breathe in the earth. For a good many of them it’d be easier to leave for the next world if they knew there were harvests waiting for them there too. It’s common knowledge, a person lives by the earth, so they ought to be drawn to the harvest like a dog to a bitch.
And so I came home. And right away on the third day I headed out for the cemetery to take a look around. I took a tape measure, a pencil, and a piece of paper, because I wanted to measure some of the graves to see what would be best for me.
Our cemetery is just outside the village. You pass the last houses, hang a left, and walk uphill a bit. When they’re taking a dead person in his casket from one of the houses you can make it all the way with three changes of bearers, four at the most. Even from the farthest places, from the mill or by the school. I’ve been a bearer many a time, always at the head. The head is a lot heavier than the legs, because from the stomach up you’ve got the back and the shoulders and the head, while what is there to carry at the legs, just thighs and shins and ten toes. But I could’ve gone the whole way without being spelled, except it wouldn’t be right not to have a change of bearers. And that’s probably what made me think the cemetery was close. Besides, I’d forgotten that my legs weren’t the same legs they used to be, and every step was like a hundred steps before.
I looked to see if there wasn’t someone driving that could give me a ride part of the way. But I’d picked the wrong time — it was noon, everyone was in the fields. My hands went numb from the walking sticks, the uphill part at the end was the worst. So the moment I made it past the cemetery gate I plopped down on the nearest tomb. I was staggered, my eyes were blinded with sweat.
Kozioł Family, I read on the stone I was sitting on. It didn’t look that big. No one would have believed you could’ve gotten more than three or four people in there. But when they buried old Kozioł here a few years ago there were already five of them in the tomb and he was number six. Though the fact is they barely managed to squeeze him in there. The coffins were squashed next to each other like barrels in a cellar. There wasn’t enough room to go inside and set the casket on its rails. They looked for the smallest farmer to climb in, but no one wanted to be the smallest one. Each one they asked said no, it wasn’t him, so-and-so was smaller. Anyway, how can you tell who’s the smallest in a crowd of people like that. You’d have had to take out a tape measure and measure them. In the end they found someone, maybe he wasn’t the smallest one, but he went in there. Except afterwards he couldn’t get out, because the casket was blocking his way and they had to pull it out again. So then they lifted it up because they thought it might be easier to get it in from the top, but this time the coffin lid got in the way. When they took the lid off, it came out that they were burying their father in resoled shoes. Another time I went to the firehouse to watch the farmers playing cards. The Koziołs’ kid Franek was playing with Jasiu Bąk and Marciniak and Kwiatkowski. Jasiu Bąk had gotten a full house, Marciniak had a straight flush, Kwiatkowski was carrying a pair, and Franek didn’t have a thing, but he was the most fanatical of all of them. In the end he bet the whole pot, and in the pot there must have been ten pairs of shoes, a suit, a shirt, a tie, maybe even a coffin. And he lost the lot, because Jasiu called him. Franek didn’t bat an eyelid. He even took another two hundred from his pocket and sent Gwóźdź out for a bottle of vodka.
I measured a dozen or so of the tombs. I didn’t just measure them, I looked them over carefully and sounded them. From what I could see, the tombs that Chmiel built were way sturdier than the ones the Woźniaks had made. Also, in comparison with Chmiel’s, the Woźniaks’ ones were tiny, even when they were for the same number of coffins. And even the oldest tombs Chmiel had built, from before the war, were still good, it was like they were part of the earth. Because Chmiel had been building tombs for donkey’s years. The Woźniaks only started during the war, when Chmiel couldn’t keep up with the work.