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The Last Will of Blaise Twardowski

NOW THAT Błażej is no longer here, his last will can be opened. But which one? For there are two of them. Which one is more important? Which one will be upheld in court—for that’s the way things are heading, no doubt about that. Two wills. Two pages in an atlas. Two halves of the globe. And between them, Błażej Twardowski. That’s what it has come to, finally, that’s how important he got to be. Although out of this life himself, he still straddles the line dividing two worlds.

A sunken face in the sheltering shadow of an oxygen tent, cheeks made gaunt by the removal of his dentures: that’s Błażej. And that’s his hand stretched out from under the plastic curtain, groping haltingly on top of the hospital blanket.

Błażej cackles.

“Vooltures, vooltures . . . scum . . . they’re no good . . . all of them just waiting, just waiting, just waiting . . . vooltures . . . .”

Błażej implores.

“Promise me . . . swear you’ll do it . . . my last will . . . .”

Błażej beseeches with his outstretched hand, with the waning whisper of his once mighty voice.

“My last will . . . .”

. . .

Perhaps one should take a good look at Błażej himself, for, although he became a personage in his own right, a man to reckon with, because of these two wills, he was there all along for nearly eighty years. Błażej belonged to Broad Street. Is there anyone who does not know Broad Street? It runs from the bay all the way to the hospital and ends beyond. Although it is the part closer to the bay, uncared for and pockmarked in spots, that was truly Błażej’s street, one cannot avoid looking at the hospital, a huge labyrinthine snail with a green dome and additions stuck on here and there.

When Błażej walked along Broad Street, it seemed as though he had come into the world right there and would also meet his end there. Many people thought so. The organist, for one. He says: “That one from Broad Street. You know who I mean . . . Twardowski.” He doesn’t even remember Błażej’s name nor does he think that anything in Błażej’s life could ever have happened away from Broad Street. And yet he had collected a commission and made some money because of the old man. The same with the lawyer. To him, Błażej was just another case. Only Wieniawski knew perhaps a little more about Błażej and, having won the old man’s trust, he had acquired a burden he had to carry until the very end.

There were two other things in Błażej’s life besides Broad Street: his native village and the steel mill. His village was in the old country—an ordinary, poverty-stricken village amid sprawling flat fields, with a church and a graveyard. The village didn’t even have any orchards, just an apple tree or a pear tree in back of some of the houses. Tillable land was what counted. Everyone there was greedy for land.

Błażej remembered some songs from his village days. A beer or two at the Polish Home bar would bring them all back to him, especially this one:

There goes that girl from Lepowiec,

Her rump wiggling like a ewe,

“What have you got there, pretty maid,

“What have you got under your apron?”

“Do not ask me what I have got,

“Come this evening, I will show you.”

Evening came, but she did not,

She just laughed at him.

But that wasn’t the most important thing. What was important was that in that village he had learned first to spell and later to read and write. There had been a boy there, not much older than Błażej, who had been sent to the city, to schools, to study for the priesthood. Błażej had become good friends with that Jasiek Lipa. To tell the truth, it was Jasiek who chose Błażej as a friend, and Błażej who surrendered slowly and cautiously at first, then totally, with all his heart, even though he did not realize at the time the strength of this friendship. Had Jasiek not come forth first, had he not taken the first step, Błażej never would have dared. More likely, he would have stood to the side jeering. But the other one came first and said: “I’ll teach you, Błażek.” Mother had fussed that no one had that kind of money to pay for lessons. But the other one cared nothing for money. He was full of the things they had stuffed into his head. He wanted to talk, to share, and he chose Błażej. Was it because Błażej was taller and stronger than other boys, or was it because he was an orphan and his stepfather was quick with the belt? No one knows. Mistrustful, but proud to be chosen, Błażej went to Jasiek, and they became like a pair of scales unequally weighted. Strangely, something made them balance one another to perfection. Jasiek would say, “Just you wait, Błażek. Come fall, you’ll be able to read and you’ll write me a letter, too.” And Błażej would reply, “Some day I’ll pay you back. I’ll thank you some day.” He did not know that he was already repaying and thanking Jasiek by giving him his trust.

Jasiek returned to the seminary, and Błażek left the village. Other, more important events rushed by. Youth burned out quickly, and Błażej saw no sense in poking in the ashes. He forgot about Jasiek and about the village and its affairs, too. He was no longer “Błażek” but “Mister Blaise Twardowski.” There was no room in his new life for the village or Jasiek Lipa—or even a memory of them—or any remembrance of that gratitude of long ago or of that feeling of trust, once coaxed into life and now buried forever in the ashes of an abandoned fire.

“What did anyone ever give me there?” Błażej would say. “An empty belly, that’s what. There was nothing to eat there. You couldn’t buy a pair of shoes.”

There was only Błażej Twardowski, the steelworks, and Broad Street. Broad Street, the line of Life on the open palm of the city. It begins near the bay, where Błażej had landed. First it runs straight and even, then it rises, climbs higher and higher, passes by the Polish Home and its restaurant, past the bank and the pharmacy. If one should climb to the top floor or, even better, to the roof of St. Stanislaus Church, one could see the steelworks from there. Walking along Broad Street Błażej would think: “This is where I used to take the bus, on this corner. But the guys that rode with me, they’re not here no more. They went away or died.” At the steel mill, Błażej had worked at sheet rolling. It took a strong man, but the pay had been good.

Just beyond the pharmacy, Broad Street rises steeply. Błażej never went past that point. He would grow short of breath, tire easily, and, anyway, why should he go there? Past that point Broad Street lost its familiar face. The city comes up from the left and gobbles it up greedily, and the hospital guards it on the right, squatting firmly, clinging to the street and barring any personal feeling, any special pacts between Błażej and Broad Street. Błażej always avoided that section of the street, though he knew that some day, helpless against the city’s greed and the hospital’s stony indifference, he would have to travel the whole length of the street. At the very end of Broad Street there is a cemetery. Its gravestones, half a century old, glow white from afar, if one has time to look that way in passing, when there are so many other things to look at, things far more important.

Błażej had no home, just a squalid little room in a garret. Broad Street was his home. He ruled it like a squire. He’d come to the bar at the Polish Home and say:

“Hey, you there, lock the door. I pay today. Only those I want here can come in.”

On those days, if anyone Błażej did not like dared to barge in . . . with a kick in the pants, out he went. Błażej liked to fight and he was very strong. There was a man to look at! Later, when Wieniawski first met him, Błażej had changed. But one could still sense in him a tremendous strength, though now faint and subdued with age. His shoulders were still broad, but they were like two wilting leaves ready to fall with a stronger gust of wind, terribly tired of fluttering and of feigning a life that was no longer in them, though they still clung to the branch and seemed to draw its sap.

Broad Street was Błażej’s home. He knew it by heart and could recognize in the dark all the uneven places on its sidewalks, all the cracks, the rough walls of the aging houses along the street, the dark hallways, and smelly courtyards. In the middle of Broad Street, where the commercial area gives way to the harbor district—to shady dives, dingy bars, and rooms for rent sheltering the scum of the city—there stands a rectangular wooden barn, an old firehouse perhaps, now turned into a food market. During the day it is full of life and the moist smells of fresh vegetables, freshly baked bread, and Polish smoked sausage. At night it becomes a shelter for tramps, where drunkards lie on the fish and meat counters until a policeman’s nightstick chases them away. Błażej liked to go there and always bought something—a chicken (but only if freshly killed) or a loaf of bread—ever mindful not to overpay. To tell the truth, he would go there more to look and to talk than to buy. They knew him there.

“Ho, lookee . . . ,” they would say. “Here comes Twardowski.”

And the butcher would say, “Any sausage today, Twardowski?”

“Yahh,” Błażej would grunt. “And how much would you want for that tiny little piece over there?” And no matter what price the butcher quoted, he would clutch his head in distress.

“All that money, all that money . . . ,” he would shake his head, which, despite his age, had not a white hair on it. He refused to buy. He did not want to spend any money on himself.

“Why be so stingy, Twardowski?” they would say.

“It does me no good. I can’t eat it any more,” he would answer. He went to the food market to talk and to look. Others might go to a museum, to an art gallery, to the theater, or to the movies. Błażej went to Broad Street. He knew the story of every house and every store on his stretch of the street the way a museum custodian knows his exhibits.

Błażej was a conservative. He had no patience for changes and innovations. He was the first to object to Wieniawski’s new office. That afternoon he picked his way down the uneven stairs of the hallway and out to St. Agnes Street, as he had daily for the past ten years, ever since he had retired from the steel mill. He stretched, yawned, and his feet carried him as if of their own will onto Broad Street.

. . .

Jan Wieniawski could not get used to Broad Street. It galled and irked him, and its steep incline seemed to him a symbol of his own downhill slide. “If anyone had told me before the war that I would have to earn my living on Broad Street, I would have slapped his face or hanged myself,” he often exclaimed.

To tell the truth, it was all talk and nothing else. Were it not for Broad Street, what would he do? Anyway, Wieniawski was a grumbler. He would have grumbled no matter where in the world he found himself, except, perhaps, in the old country or among understanding friends. But here he was alone, damn it, completely alone. He grumbled more to bemoan his own loneliness than anything else, and Broad Street just happened to be there to provide a handy target for his abuse. He thought it squalid, noisy, stinking, and tawdry. He deplored having to live in such degradation amid uncomprehending strangers. Wieniawski’s life had begun and developed in the old country. Unlike Błażej, he talked about the old country with genuine emotion, never failing to add that it was the West and its politics that were to blame for his own forced migration to the United States. He always stressed the fact that he was a political émigré, crushed by an evil whim of fate and forced to vegetate on Broad Street, of no use to either the old country or the new.

“And those people . . . ,” he sighed, thinking of the “bread immigrants” who clustered along Broad Street. “Those people . . . God have mercy! Mistrustful, suspicious, hostile. Back in Poland, I knew the peasants. Knew the workers, too. They were my people. I could always talk with them. But here . . . They are so changed in America, it is as if they have come from another planet.”

He was probably right. For if Błażej represented the peasants from the old country, Wieniawski—though citified and educated over some generations—had evolved from the same stock, with unsevered bonds of deep attachment to the soil that had nurtured them both.

Both men had been washed up onto Broad Street by the waves of the bay. Błażej had accepted this philosophically, matter-of-factly, and had adapted himself and even grown fond of his new surroundings. But in Wieniawski there seethed an unending rebellion and bitterness. What would have become of him, though, were it not for Broad Street and his newly opened travel office, the Albatross?

On a warm spring afternoon filled with sun and promise, Błażej walked along St. Agnes Street, thinking he’d maybe stop at the food market, buy a chicken, and cook a pot of chicken soup to last him a week. He stopped in front of the market, shaded his eyes against the sun, looked at Broad Street . . . and blinked. He thought his eyes were failing him. He took his glasses out of his breast pocket and looked again. On the left side of the street, just past the bank, near the Polish Home, he saw a man on a ladder, painting a sign. Twardowski forgot all about his chicken. He shuffled toward the ladder, tilted his head back, and tried to make out the letters the man was painting. Failing at that, he lowered his head and looked at the freshly washed store windows in front of him.

“See that? . . .” he muttered.

There was a bilingual sign in the windows:

PACZKI DO POLSKI—PARCELS TO POLAND

“How did that happen? When?” Błażej was annoyed. Just a while ago, it seemed, there had been a hardware store here. And now? He came up closer to the windows and tried to look inside, but he couldn’t see anything. Cautiously he opened the door a crack and took a look. Inside there were two men he didn’t know. One was talking on the phone, and the other was sitting at a desk, writing.

“See that . . .” murmured Błażej again. He grew angry at this invasion.

“When did they come here?” he wondered.

He went on quickly to the Polish Home, pushed the door open, and hobbled along the dark corridor to the bar. He put his elbows on the counter. It had been a long time since he’d had his last beer here—the doctor had told him that he had not long to live and that drink could kill him—but they still knew him there and remembered his name.

“Those guys . . . ,” he asked the barman, “Who are they?”

“What guys?”

“Over on Broad Street, in the hardware store.”

“Some new people.” The barman made a face. “The man’s name is Wieniawski, or something like that.”

“What’s he doing here?” pressed Błażej.

“How would I know? I heard people say he writes letters, sends parcels to Poland.”

“And if one came to him with a letter, would he read it? Can he read Polish?”

“Go and ask yourself, if you want to know.”

“Not me. I don’t trust that guy. Most likely all he wants is to line his pockets with other people’s dollars, that’s what.”

For a full week Błażej circled around the store. He was upset. Were it not for the letter, he probably never would have gone inside. It was a letter from the old country, but not an ordinary one like those others that Błażej usually threw out unread, not very curious about their contents. This one was a registered letter. The mailman had brought it to Błażej and made him sign for it. The old man twirled it in his hand, considered it carefully, opened it, and tried to make out what was in it, but failed. He decided to go to the Polish Home and ask someone there to read the letter to him.

Błażej had few friends. While he was still working, while he could stand a beer or two—he’d had friends galore. But lately, more and more friends had fallen away, and those who remained had grown lukewarm.

“The beer’s on me,” Błażej called to the barman. “For anyone who can make out this letter.”

Some came right over, bent their heads, passed the letter from hand to hand, and spelled out each word laboriously.

“It’s some Gienia that is writing you, Twardowski,” they concluded.

“Bolanowska?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s my late sister’s girl. Well? What’s she got to write about?”

“In the first words of my letter I advise my beloved uncle that I am alive and in good health, which is also what I wish for him . . . .”

“Stupid!” Błażej pounded the counter with his fist. “To waste all that money to write such foolishness! What else?”

“She writes that the government wants to take your land away and that it’ll be necessary to go to court . . . .”

“Damn them!” Błażej rose to his feet. It suddenly came to him that he still owned a piece of land in the old country, inherited after his father’s death. He never had given it a thought. Only now. That’s right . . . he owned a piece of land, and now they wanted to take it away from him.

“What should I do?” He turned to the barman. “How can I save it?”

The letter, now crumpled and beer-stained, passed again from hand to hand.

“She writes she needs money to pay the lawyer.”

“What can I do? What can I do?” whispered Błażej.

He looked helplessly around the dim bar, but his thoughts were far away. The land. How was he to save it? What was he to do? There was only one thought in his mind: not to give up the land, not to let it go, to keep it.

“Thieving sons of bitches, vooltures, they got at me even here, they want to take my land!”

And there he was already, spread-eagled on that land, his long arms stretched out, nails dug deep in the loam, defending the land. He remembered how once, long ago, a man killed his neighbor because he had plowed over his path. Even kinship did not matter. For land, a man would crack his brother’s skull wide open. And those strangers aimed to take his land. His own land, his patrimony.

“What should I do?” he moaned. “How can I save it?” He never stopped to think why or for whom he should be trying to save that piece of land that he had never wanted to see again, that surely he would never see again. He felt as if someone were tearing out his vitals, slicing his belly open, and murdering him. He was fighting for his very life—for land. His legs trembled, and his body felt clammy with sweat.

“What should I do? Tell me what to do.”

“Why don’t you try and talk to Wieniawski about it? Maybe he can help.”

“Give me back my letter.”

He smoothed out the sheets, folded the letter, slipped it into its envelope, and without further ado went to Wieniawski’s office to seek help.

. . .

Stefański the organist jumped up from behind his desk.

“What’s the matter with you? Are you coming in or not? It must be a dozen times you’ve opened that door.”

Hesitant, Błażej stood in the doorway, looking the place over.

“I want to see the one who can send money to the old country.”

“Which one? Perhaps I can help you?”

Błażej walked in. He looked at Stefański suspiciously.

“You wouldn’t be Wieniawski, would you?”

“No,” said the organist. “If you want to see Mr. Wieniawski you’ll have to wait.”

“A miser,” he thought. “I know the kind. I won’t make a buck off him, anyway. If he wants to wait for Wieniawski, so much the better.”

Błażej took no offense. Slowly, he began to feel a bit more sure of himself. Crossing the threshold had been the worst of it. “I know that man from somewheres,” he thought, looking at Stefański bent over the papers on his desk.

“You’re just from the old country?”

The organist gave a start. “Why?”

“Nothing. Just thought maybe you came over a short while ago.”

“It shows, huh? Do I look different?”

“You talk different. Where did you come from?”

“Warsaw.” He sighed. “Just sit there and wait. I’m busy.”

Błażej turned away, but he did not sit down. He was standing against the map on the wall, his shoulders hunched, his hand exploring his pocket to see if the letter was still there.

“When did you come over here?”

“Anything else you’d like to know? Why don’t you mind your own business?”

“Seems to me like you must be that new organist over at St. Agnes . . . .”

“So what?”

“Nothing. Heard people say he came over recently.”

“Can’t you stop talking? I got work to do.”

The truth was that Stefański—the Party’s prize pupil, the pride of the People’s Republic, the flower of the new communist elite, the respected and admired official—had chosen freedom.

Błażej took out a half-smoked cigar, stuck it between his false teeth, smacked his lips, and lit it up.

“Well, then . . . How are things over there now?”

Stefański looked at him with bloodshot eyes. “Can’t you see I’m working? How can they be? Bad.”

“It’s better over here?”

“If only I could, I’d go back. I’d just as soon leave the United States. What sort of life can one have here? . . .”

Wieniawski walked in briskly. “You want to see me?” He glanced at Błażej. “Just a moment, I’ll be right with you. One second.”

Without taking off his coat, he went inside, behind a plywood partition that separated the attorney’s office.

“Where is Dekrocki?” he called out. “Mr. Stefański, hasn’t Dekrocki been here at all?”

“No, sir, he hasn’t been here today.”

“Where in blazes does he keep himself? Why doesn’t he mind the shop?”

Hanging up his hat and coat and inveighing loudly, Wieniawski turned an angry red.

“That’s the American sense of duty for you, that’s the kind of responsibility . . . .”

A shadow loomed up behind him—the organist was bigger and taller than Wieniawski—and leaned over him: “Mr. Wieniawski . . . sh . . . sh . . . sh . . . you’re talking too much and too loudly. No use cursing. The walls have ears . . . .”

“There you go again, Mr. Stefański. I’ve told you time and again that it’s a free country here.”

“I have already heard . . . I’m warning you as a friend. Anyway, do you know who that man may be? That one, over there, the one who’s been waiting for you?”

“Mr. Stefański, over here we are . . . ,” began Wieniawski. But then he changed his mind and only shrugged.

“The client . . . that’s right,” he said. “I’m coming right away.”

“I can wait,” said Błażej. He took the letter from his pocket, smoothed it out with the back of his hand. “Bastards,” he muttered, “Damned vooltures . . . .”

“What can I do for you?” Błażej’s tired face seemed gray behind the screen of his cigar smoke. He hid behind it. Wieniawski looked at him closely—and saw nothing but the eyes of the stranger, two headlights of a car lost in the fog.

“An old-timer,” thought Wieniawski. “He wants to send a parcel to the old country.”

Safe behind his cigar, yet lost in the smoke screen, Błażej appraised the man before him. “Who’s he like?” he thought. “He reminds me of someone . . . .” But there had been too many people in Błażej’s long life to remember, and it was too tiresome to think.

“Can you read a letter in Polish?” he asked suspiciously.

“Sure.”

“And how much would you want for reading it?”

“For reading a letter?” Wieniawski was surprised. “Nothing.”

A spring afternoon was marching up Broad Street from the bay. It did not smell of leaves and freshly turned soil, but of fish from the market stalls and humid wind. Swatches of sun lay on the sidewalk outside the travel office windows. Once more, Błażej smoothed the letter with the back of his hand, as if wanting to erase the beer stains. Reluctantly, warily, he pushed the letter toward Wieniawski. And immediately he moved his big body and leaned over to watch intently while Wieniawski was reading the letter, scanning his face suspiciously all the while.

“Well, what is it she wants?” he asked at last. “Why is she writing?” he asked, even though he knew already what was in the letter. “Can you read it? Can you make it out?”

Wieniawski looked up.

“She writes that the government wants to take over that piece of land you inherited from your father; they want to take it over for the state . . . .”

“I know that. What else?”

“If you know, then why . . . .”

A gust of wind blew through the suddenly opened door. Attorney Dekrocki walked in. “It’s high time you showed up, Antek,” called Wieniawski. “You were to be in court at one o’clock, That’s a fine way to act.”

Dekrocki was a jovial man, fond of a good meal like the one he had just finished.

“Never mind,” he muttered.

“My respects, sir,” bowed Stefański.

Dekrocki made his way past Błażej and around Stefański.

“Blowing like the dickens out there,” he said, “On the corner it nearly blew me off my feet.” He went behind the partition. Błażej moved uneasily.

“What else does it say there?” he pressed.

“If you already know, why do you ask?”

“Go on, read it, don’t get your dander up. But we must hurry, I need your advice!”

“About what?”

“So they won’t take that land away.”

“Well, let’s see now,” mused Wieniawski. “We could save it, I suppose, if you ceded your rights to your niece.”

“To Gienia?”

“That’s right. To Gienia. She writes that we have ten days in which to do something. We would have to go to the embassy right away and certify that you made a gift of that land to Gienia. Then we’d have to wire her one hundred dollars, like she says.”

“How much will all this come to?” fretted Błażej.

“Of course, there’ll be some additional expenses. But perhaps you don’t want to give that land to your niece? Not that you’ll ever have any use for . . . .”

Błażej smiled craftily, an inward smile stretched his lips. He was taut and tense. His feet tingled. “Won’t give it to any strangers,” he said. “It’s better to let Gienia have it. But we must hurry or they’ll take it away from us. Let’s hurry!” He spoke excitedly.

He got up and paced back and forth, puffing impatiently on his cigar. Now Wieniawski could take a good look at him. The old man was powerfully built but worn with age. His head drooped to one side, as if it were too heavy for the neck that supported it. Wieniawski looked at him thoughtfully.

“How old are you, may I ask?”

“About seventy-eight. Why?”

Wieniawski said nothing. “He could be my father,” he thought, and felt a twinge of a forgotten emotion. It had been many years since his father had died.

“A handsome age,” he said aloud. “Do you have any children, either here or in Poland?”

“I have no one.”

“And that . . . Gienia Bolanowska?”

“That’s my late sister’s girl.”

Wieniawski pulled out a sheet of paper and began to prepare an act of donation. Błażej, meanwhile, put on his glasses, reached for the letter again, and strained once more to figure out its contents.

“What does it say here?” He pointed with his finger.

“I thought you knew what the letter says.”

“No, over here. Start reading from here, please.”

His work on Broad Street had taught Wieniawski patience. He smoothed out the crumpled sheets and began reading aloud:

Dear Uncle,