Tomasz Jedrowski

In those days I had no idea where I was going, and the work at the camp
seemed to offer little release. The sun was merciless, and my body revolted
against the effort, refusing to sweat. As I broke up the earth and pulled on
the beets, my thoughts would snap back to you, to the bar where Karolina
had taken me, to the void stretching out before me. I fought against them
(the thoughts and the beets), fought their stubbornness, their toughness. I
fought them, and they fought me, until I tore them out and the next one
came. By now I was faster, stronger. I no longer had to kneel in the earth. I
stood up like you, bent at the knees and back straight. But it was still a
struggle; the real fight was not with the earth or the plants. Slowly, slowly, I
found a rhythm. I stopped fighting. I stopped thinking. One day, as I worked
away like this, sweat began to release itself. I allowed the union between
the earth and my body, I let go, and for the first time in my life I appreciated
everything for what it was, observed the miracle of it. The earth for being
the earth, my hands for being my hands, the plants for growing out of seeds,
and the others around me, everyone, with their own rights and dreams and
interior worlds. Sweat poured over me more than ever, drenched my face,
swept across the thick of my brows into my eyes, flooded down my neck
and down my back like a deluge, and I accepted its gift. It was as if the
sweat had washed away the past and all the thoughts and fears of the future
and all that remained was now, clean and light and ever-dancing.
That evening I left the others behind and went for a walk. The evening
was mild. I crossed the fence, went past the beetroot fields, until I reached a
small river. Red and yellow poppies grew by its bank, and tall grasses
moved in the breeze. The murmur of the water calmed me, weaving itself
into my subconscious. I kept walking. On the other bank, a hare ran across a
field, stopping at the sight of me, ears propped up like furry ferns, tiny nose
flickering up and down. There we stood, the two of us, motionless, taking
each other in. Finally, he turned his head and hopped off.
It did me good, that walk. It reminded me of the aimless ones I would
take in Wrocław, when I could no longer stand being in the same space as
Granny or at school. There was nowhere I could be without being with
others, having to interact or to act. Even on my walks around the block,
neighbors greeted and appraised. There were times when I’d get on the tram
and ride across the city. I would get off at the last stop, in a neighborhood
where no one knew me, and I’d wander, not thinking, looking at the
unknown streets and houses and people and feeling free and anonymous.
Like an unwritten piece of paper. I’d forgotten the pleasure of this, and then
and there, by the river, with the fields stretching out before me and the
camp far behind me, something of that freedom returned. The water was
clear, and at the bottom I could see the bed of pebbles and light-brown mud
and small fish swimming to and fro.
I continued on, not thinking about where I was going until I stopped, not
quite knowing why. There was something large moving in the water.
Someone was swimming. The back of a head—black wet hair glued to it—
moved away from me, and I stood and watched, seeing without being seen.
Broad shoulders and fine back muscles moved in a quick, confident crawl,
head underwater, coming up for air every couple of strokes. Before I knew
it, the figure had turned around and started to swim in my direction. It got
closer and closer with each move. The sun was behind me, and I threw a
long shadow onto the water. As soon as the figure swam through this dark
stretch, it stopped and raised its head.
You wiped your eyes with the back of your hand and stood up in the
water, which was only waist-deep.
“Hello,” you said, sounding like you didn’t know who I was. Streams of
water trickled down your torso. Your body was slim and strong, your chest
and stomach drawn with lines and divisions, their own rules of gravity.
“Hello,” I said, torn between wanting to run and watching you.
You squinted and held your palm flat over your brow against the sun
behind me. “You’re from our group, no?”
I nodded.
“I’m Janusz,” you said with an easy smile. You seemed almost
offensively comfortable standing there. I was the one feeling naked.
“I’ll let you get on. Didn’t mean to disturb.” I turned to leave.
“And you?”
I turned back around. “Me what?”
You laughed. It was a light and joyous sound, self-sufficient and
contagious. “You have your head in the clouds, no? Your name.”
I laughed too, feeling myself blush.
“I’m Ludwik. Ludwik Głowacki.” It struck me how little my name meant
to me, how absurd it was in its attempt to contain me.
You nodded. “Nice to meet you properly. Don’t you want to try the
water?” Your arms moved around in it. “It’s perfect.”
“Thanks. I don’t really swim.”
You looked at me funny. “You don’t know how to swim?”
I shook my head. “No, that’s not it. I just don’t like to do it.”
“Not even in this heat? Why not?” You laughed, incredulous, your smile
mocking and charming.
I shrugged and walked a couple of steps backward. “Maybe another day.”
“OK,” you said, nodding. “Another day. I’m here almost every evening.”
“See you, then,” I said, walking off. After a few steps I turned around,
despite myself. Your body was gliding through the water, leaving a trail of
ripples on its surface.