Pedophile

The church was small, as small village churches usually are. It held a pinch of secrets, etched in the frescoes on the walls, hidden between the pews, rustling near the tabernacle like a sweet chocolate wrapper held in the hands. It had accumulated them over the centuries. All these secrets and sins, joys and sorrows, had their eternal haven here. Undiscovered, hidden in the darkness that descends after the candles are extinguished, they lived their own peaceful life, undisturbed by the ever-inquisitive.

Light streamed lazily through the old stained-glass windows, still inscribed in German, onto the main nave. The columns were topped by arcades that converged at the church vault like a pilgrim's hands folded in prayer, as the builders intended. Typical Gothic, an art connoisseur would say dryly.

A man walked down the main nave. Slow footsteps echoed among the empty pews, flew past the confessionals, and returned to his ears after passing the altar. He was a priest, a young priest. He was about thirty years old. He was alone with his despair in this place designated for prayer. Yet his thoughts were far from the adoration of God; they raced chaotically through his head, like a hammer pounding the walls of his skull. Then they mingled with his tears, only to burst forth through his bloodshot eye sockets. He wept, though a man, especially a priest, was forbidden to cry. From chaos comes suffering. Suffering piercing his very bones. From suffering comes pain. He closed his eyes. "God, my God, why have you abandoned me? Why have you taken everything that held value for me?"

He slowly ascended the altar steps. He hesitated. He retreated once more to the place where the faithful receive communion. "God, be merciful to me, a sinner." He took out his pistol. He put it in his mouth. He pulled the trigger. The sound of the shot reverberated off the red walls, as if terrifying the previously impassive figures of the saints. Slowly, like a piece of silk garment released from his hand, the man slumped to the floor. His still-beating heart pumped liters of blood, which now spilled like a river onto the old stone floor in front of the altar. He no longer felt anything. His life was now just a memory to others.

"His Eminence the bishop wrote to me about you. He introduced you as a promising vicar." The new parish priest greeted him. The parish of the Holy Family was what every newly minted priest would desire. A stylish basilica being built in a big city. A large parish. Something of a dream.

He began work. The rituals of the services didn't tire him, but he devoted all his energy to the children. Religious education with Father Marek became a special attraction for the local youth. A captivating speaker, a man who, sensing their souls, played soccer with them after school and in the evenings taught slightly older children to play guitar. On holidays, before or immediately after morning Mass, he went fishing with a large group of children. Usually, they caught ruffs, bleaks, or small perches, but size wasn't the issue.

Mid-October passed. He arrived at the school. Sister Marta was ill, and in addition to her classes, he was also supposed to teach the lessons for her, including the First-Birth Day, the teachers' nightmare. A mannered class. Children of scum and prostitutes. Antisocial, aggressive, and incorrigible, as everyone said.

He entered, and silence fell. "Praised be Jesus Christ.

" "And praise yourself, you loser." The class burst into laughter.

He smiled. "They said you were useless, but as soon as I walked in, I realized you had a clown." The class roared with laughter again. "If you work a little harder, you could be a good satirist. It's a very interesting activity. "

The lesson went by like a blur. It was like conquering a fortress. Slowly, gradually, those naughty boys, those passive, stupid girls, began to open up. Somehow, a thread of connection began to form, though still very tenuous.

"Please, boy, what's your name?

" "Maciek

." "Could you read that prayer from page 73 ?

" The class burst into laughter. "Father, he's an idiot, he can't read." Shouts of similar content came from several sides.

"Fine. Maybe another time." He

recommended it to someone else.

After the lesson, he asked Maciek to stay.

"Maciek, can you really not read or write?"

He looked at him. Slightly smaller than his peers, with gray skin, and untrimmed fingernails. A slightly dirty shirt with a torn sleeve was tucked into perhaps even dirtier pants.

"No." Then he started to cry. But only for a moment. Then he wiped his nose with his sleeve. "Father, may I go now?

" "Go."

A fifth-grader who couldn't read was surprised in the early 1990s. Horror. Slowly, a bit late, he entered the teachers' lounge. He approached Maciek's teacher, Mrs. Krajewska. She was a middle-aged woman, impeccably dressed for a teacher, though a bit out of fashion.

"Mrs. Krajewska, I had a religion lesson in class VB, and there's a boy there who can't read.

" "Yes, I know, Bednarczyk, a child with limited talent. He should actually be in a special school, but the principal decided that if the boy finished regular school, it would only benefit him.

" "But he can't even read or write."

"The priest is very young. He hasn't seen much of life. The boy comes from a dysfunctional family. His drunkard father abuses the boy's mother, fathers a new child every year, and tortures them all. We tried to help them, but every attempt to intervene ends in threats against us and torture of the children and his wife.

" "But hasn't anyone tried to teach him to read and write?"

"We tried, but the boy is probably too stupid, and there are other children in the class too. Father, take a look at Rafał Ząbkowicz, for example. An exceptionally gifted child. The mother is a very active member of the parents' association, even though she and her husband own two stalls, which they work at all the time."

That practically ended the conversation. No one was interested in the boy. No one even wanted to pay attention to him.

He left for another religious education class practically before the other teachers, constantly thinking about the boy.

"Look, they barely got in here with this religion thing and they're already trying to judge how we teach our children," he heard Krajewska talking to the vice-principal out of the corner of his ear.

That afternoon, he spoke with the parish priest.

"You see, Father, there are 12 children there," the priest said. "We're trying to help them, but Bednarczyk drinks away everything Bednarczyk gets from the parish charity." When religion was still in church, he never showed up for catechism classes. Thanks to religion classes at school, the priest can at least teach him prayers. His parents aren't interested in anything except how to drink.

Father Marek took over the fifth-grade class. Sister Marta breathed a sigh of relief when he suggested it. The class was terrible, and the worst of them seemed to be Rafał Ząbkowicz, so praised by the other teachers. The lessons were slow, but over time, they began to listen. He began to involve the more adventurous ones in playing football after school, sometimes even attending afternoon mass or the Stations of the Cross. Slowly, the pack of unruly wolves began to trust him. Once, they even went fishing with him. Of course, the catch wasn't very impressive, but the ice had broken. He slowly began to talk to them, except, of course, little Ząbkowicz, who had a different opinion on everything.

Maciek always sat on the sidelines. Sometimes unwashed, in the worn-out clothes of his older siblings, slightly smaller than his peers, he was barely tolerated by them. He spoke little and was often the laughingstock of his classmates. After another lesson, Marek approached Maciek.

"Would you like to talk to me?

" "Who am I?" he seemed a little embarrassed. "No. They'll laugh at me again.

" "Why?

" "They always laugh at me. They'll come up with the stupidest excuse to make me cry.

" "And you?

" "And I grit my teeth so they wouldn't see anything. I'll show them someday."

- What do you want to do?

- I don't know. Maybe I'll beat them up someday.

- Would that make you happy?

- Yes, they'll cry.

"Do you like watching others cry?

" "No, I don't.

" "See, you don't want them to cry after all. You have to consider your own desires?

" "I don't know, Father. I've never done this before.

" "If you want, we can talk about it after class sometime, or if you prefer, you can come to my rectory. No one will see you talking to me there.

" "Okay."

That day, Marek returned home from class happy. He didn't like this school. The terrible atmosphere among the teaching staff. The teachers paid more attention to the latest fashion magazines or new cosmetics than to the students. To them, they were an addition to the school. And he wanted to do something more. He had his own vision of working with children; he was fascinated by the idea of ​​taming wolf cubs. An orphan himself, a foster child, he wanted to give the children what he himself hadn't experienced: love.

He walked slowly. The school was located on the edge of the housing estate. Hidden behind the large, dirty slabs of high-rise buildings, nestled between excavations for planned but never realized construction projects, it was a typical millennial school, of which there were many in this country. Too small for a housing estate of its size, it housed hundreds of rambunctious children, crammed into narrow corridors and rooms too small for too many classes. He passed more excavations, slowly approaching the neighborhood sports field, where he infuriated the parish club by playing football with the boys. Ząbkowicz's wife in particular. Although he had been in the parish for only two months, the woman had already visited the parish priest four times.

"It's not proper for a priest to kick a ball with children.

" "Mrs. Ząbkowicz, what are these boys supposed to do?" the priest replied. "Learn to steal or drink alcohol. They have no occupation in this housing estate. It's good that they play football with Father Marek, at least."

"A terrible woman," he thought. "She wants to be seen as a devout Catholic. She always sits in the front row and goes to confession regularly every month, and immediately after leaving church, she regularly spreads gossip. How deceitful people can be." After crossing the football field, he reached the parking lot. Apart from the two little ones, there were no vehicles in it. He walked briskly. A few meters away was the rectory, or rather, the modest barracks that served as one. The parish of the Holy Family was building a church. Neither the previous priest—a supposed drunkard and carouser—nor the current one had seen fit to build a large parish house before the church was finished. A small chapel, located in a corner of the church, was now completed. It had been built as a separate structure rather than part of it. It was connected only by a narrow doorway to the main part of the church, where construction was currently underway. The church, though unfinished, filled him with pride. He felt a special grace within its austere walls. Their simplicity, without decorations, paintings, or even plaster, made him feel the Almighty's presence.

The rectory barracks were very comfortable. Although modest, they were well-organized. A small section near the entrance was used for receiving parishioners. Then, after passing through a rather long corridor, one entered the priests' section. Here was the dining room and utility rooms. A third section, as it were, consisted of the priests' rooms and, separate from them, the nuns' section.

In the evenings, he celebrated Mass. A few old women. A short sermon, and he went to his room.

"Father, there's a child here," said Kowalska, who helped in the parish. "He wouldn't let you shoo him away, or even wash him. Father, here. I put this slob here.

" "What child?

" "Little Bednarczyk, tell me one." He said the priest invited him and wouldn't let you shoo him away. I led him to the old catechism room; at least there he wouldn't steal anything.

" "Mrs. Kowalska, aren't you exaggerating?"

"I know these idiots. The father drinks, then beats the mother. And the children run wild, stealing whatever they can.

" "And how do you know that?

" "And they live next door to me, in the next building.

" They entered the room. The boy was sitting quietly on a chair in the corner. "Here's where you have him." She turned on the light. A stream of light, lazily seeping from the bulb, revealed Maciek with a black eye and a trickle of blood leaking from his nose.

"Hi Maciek. What happened?" he asked, and then with a reproachful look in his eyes, he said to Kowalska,

"Mrs. Kowalska, you should have at least washed him, if not called the police

." "Oh, I didn't see that nose. It was so dirty I couldn't see anything in the dark. And as for the police, you better not start. They'll come and threaten him, sometimes take him to the prosecutor's office, and then he'll come back and torture the family even more."

"And no one tried to help them.

" "And once, Bednarczyk's people even talked Bednarczyk into taking the case to court. But she called it off. Then she drank with him for two weeks before he remembered and gave her such a hard time that she ended up in the hospital. That's how they like it when you give them a hard time.

" "Come on, you dirty bastard, I'll wash your face.

" Kowalska did it efficiently, deliberately soaking him as much as possible. "Where are you going, like a cat drowning in a sack.

" "I don't...

" "Don't talk, or you'll get wet again." Finally, she looked at Marek and said,

"Father, you've got that scumbag."

She left, slamming the door and whining, "What happened...

" "Maciek, what happened?

" "And the priest said if I wanted to talk, I could come over." Zgred returned to the square after his break, thoroughly wasted. And that stupid old hag, instead of giving him something to eat and going to bed, she lashed out at him. You got drunk again. It's been like this ever since they let him out of jail. And then he gave her a slap. Rysiek tried to fight back, and I got hit because I got in his way. So I ran away from home. Now the old guys will be drinking, screwing around, and then in the morning he'll beat her up again. I'm always like that. I usually slept in the stairwell. Sometimes I wandered the streets. And today I said, since the priest invited me, maybe I'll hide here. It's so cold in the street.

"You run away from home often.

" "Well, twice a week." I don't really run away, I just come out when the old guy yells, 'Fuck off.' The younger ones hide in the little room, and I go outside.

" "Do you like that?

" "No. But I have to stay so I can get in his way again."

"Maybe you're right?" Marek was sitting in a chair when Kowalska came in.

"Will the priest have dinner?

" "Yes. And will there be anything for the boy? Maciek, have you had dinner?

" "No.

" "Of course. But the vicar definitely wants to feed this stray," Kowalska interjected.

"Mrs. Kowalska, you'll bring us some food here. You'll also tell the parish priest that it's important."

She left, whining as usual. It sounded rather amusing, so both she and Maciek brightened up.

"When did you last eat?

" "At school, dinner.

" "Do you eat anything outside of school?

" "No, rarely. Father drinks away all his money. Then he can't afford anything. Mother sometimes goes to the neighbor's house and brings him something to eat. She's a pretty healthy woman.

" "Maciek, you can't talk like that about your mother.

" "What can I say, she's a teacher? They give anyone who wants to eat, too." I sometimes run around getting condoms for the guys who come to school to get them. I always keep the rest for myself, sometimes I save up for a roll.

Kowalska came in. She also brought steaming hot dogs, a few slices of bread, some cheese and cold cuts, and butter.

"Please help yourself."

Maciek threw himself into the food as if he hadn't eaten in a week.

"Why are you eating so fast?

" "And in our square," Maciek said with his mouth full, "the faster the better.

" "But you can't eat so fast. Look, this is all for you. If you're still hungry, just ask."

But Maciek wasn't listening. He stuffed everything within reach into his mouth. Marek wanted to lecture him, but he thought he probably wouldn't win over such a wolf.

After the meal, they sat in silence for a while. Marek began.

"Maciek, do you like the life your father leads?

" "I don't know. I don't know any different.

" "And the lives of your friends?

" "I don't know him. They never invited me over. They said I was a thief and a filthy person.

" "Have you ever stolen anything?

" "No, never, but it doesn't bother them.

" "See, Maciek, you have to take care of yourself. They write you off when they see you. Don't you have water and soap at home?

" "No." Father doesn't pay, so they turn off the taps.

"And clean clothes?

" "If mother brings something nicer from Charity or social assistance, the old man will sell it and drink the money away. He says if we look bad, mother will get more.

" "Do you like this life?

" "No.

" "Wouldn't you like to change it?

" "I would, but how.

" "Maciek. Why can't you write and read?

" "Oh, I've never been good at it. I don't think I can learn.

" "Maciek, I watched the children in class; you're no smarter than them. You just have to want to and try. So come on, let's see what we can come up with."

Marek took a thick spiral notebook and drew one of the letters on a piece of paper. Then he turned to the boy.

"Try to look and tell me what you see."

The boy stared with wide eyes, as if into a void.

"Maciek, do you see well? It's not shameful to admit you don't see well.

" "Yes, Father's right. My vision is poor; what the priest wrote looks like a stain.

" "Haven't you told anyone that?"

"The old people didn't want to listen, and as for the others, I didn't have the courage, and they didn't want to listen to me.

" "Well, boy, we have to choose your glasses."

The door opened and the priest entered, a man rather cold in his approach, but as everyone said, big-hearted.

"Please, priest, we can buy the boy some glasses."

The priest smiled. "Okay, Marek."

The young priest explained the whole situation to his superior in a few words.

"Maciek, where will you be staying?" the priest asked.

"Usually, my neighbor puts me up overnight, but she finishes work late at 11 p.m. and takes me when I'm sitting on the stairs. She lets me cry. In the morning, she lets me out quietly, and my mother passes me my bag of books through the door so my father doesn't hear.

"Okay, it's 9:30 p.m., so you still have a little over an hour. You can sit with Father Marek. And you both won't get away with buying glasses that easily. "

Marek showed him his room.

"But the priest has a lot of books, almost as many as in the school library.

" "Not that many. But quite a lot. I like reading. Some are about religion, others I bought for pleasure.

" "Can reading be enjoyable?

" "Yes, it is.

" "And besides pleasure, is there anything else you read books for?

" "We speak for reasons other than pleasure. Yes, Maciek. You can learn about the world, improve your language. Learn about things we'll never see.

" "But you can see the same things on television.

" "You know, television shows a lot of interesting things, but books are much more interesting."

"Why?

" "You see, a movie shows you what it wants to show you, tells you how to look and what to do. But in a book, you can see more. You can see much more because the image is created in your imagination. You can be the hero of the book you're reading. You want to listen.

" "Yes."

He picked up the book and began reading an excerpt. It was a story about two friends playing pranks, figuring out how to annoy their parents. Just a story about two pranksters who always got away with harmless, cheerful pranks. The hour flew by.

"Did you like it?" he looked at the face of that sad little gray wolf, always hiding from his friends' gaze. She was laughing all over.

"Yes, very much so. Is the priest telling the truth that I can read too?

" "Yes, Maciek. We just need to get you some glasses.

" "I have to go now. When my neighbor comes back, maybe she'll put me up for the night."

He dressed and quickly left.

Sending Maciek to the ophthalmologist was quite a feat. The boy tried to avoid seeing a doctor at all costs. With difficulty, almost by force, he went with the priest.

The ophthalmologist, forced to perform an examination, initially quite skeptical of the priest's ideas, left terrified.

"The boy will probably qualify for surgery soon; for now, glasses will have to suffice. I'm not surprised the boy can't read."

They ordered the glasses the same day.

"You see, Maciek, sometimes it's worth trying something different."

The glasses were ready a week later. They tried them on at the rectory.

"Well, Maciek, we'll start today."

They approached the table. He spread out a book and a notebook.

"You know that, right?"

"Look, look at this letter, what does it remind you of?

" "A circle."

"It's the letter O, it reminds you of lips when we say 'o' when surprised.

" "It's simple, 'o, 'o,' 'o,'" he repeated, delighted.

"Can you repeat that? "

He took a pencil and, with an unskilled hand, wrote 'o.

' "Do you see how simple it is?

" "Yes. I thought it would be more difficult.

" "Okay, now another one.

" "What does it remind you of?"

"Like hands folded in prayer, only not like people do, but like a priest tells little children to do, and Sister Marta folds her hands. We always laughed at her for that.

" "Interesting comparison. This is the letter A. Try writing it."

He wrote it correctly. They spent the entire evening learning some of the letters of the alphabet. Maciek devoured them as quickly as he devoured food on his first visit to the rectory. His thirst for knowledge seemed limitless, insatiable for so many years, and at that moment it found fulfillment. When Marek looked at his watch and said he had to go, he seemed sad. Unlike the first visit, from which he'd fallen like a stone from a slingshot, he was reluctant to leave.

"Can I come back tomorrow after Mass?

" "You can."

He left his glasses at the rectory. At school, he pretended as if nothing had changed. He sat in the back, not talking to anyone, feigning disinterest in the lesson. He was drawing something, as usual, in his notebook, which had no letters written on it. In the evening, just in time for Marek's return from evening Mass, he stood at the rectory door. That evening, they covered the rest of the alphabet and digraphs, and he also began to put simple words together, slowly and laboriously. He wrote, though not clearly, but he didn't mix up the letters; the initial lines quickly turned into rows of evenly spaced letters, then syllables and words.

They worked together for several weeks. It was incredible; the boy everyone had condemned to failure was gradually making up for the lost years. He still didn't dare wear his glasses to school, but Marek didn't rush him. He preferred to wait until he was mature enough. They began learning to count. But she was making progress with difficulty. He was actually perfect at math, the only problem he had was with notation. Gradually, they began tackling increasingly complex tasks. By Christmas, they had even started Russian. He was a little surprised by the different script. The priest explained the origins of the wafer. On Christmas Eve, they would share the wafer.

"Maciek, I wish you to do things you never even dreamed of."

After a moment, he added, "After the holidays, you're taking your glasses to school."

After the new year, they met at school. Maciek, with his large glasses, was causing everyone to laugh. But Marek, as if stealthily, approached and quietly whispered, "Don't let them get to you, show them you don't care."

It helped. "And what are you jealous of, that you don't have any?"

The entire staffroom buzzed as the teachers began to chatter about the boy's progress; he slowly began to read, write, and even count.

"It's the result of my consistent education," Krajewska said with unconcealed delight.

Father Marek sat in the corner of the room, silently listening to Krajewska's praise.

He didn't listen to the radio that day and, after prayer, fell asleep peacefully. He no longer had any concerns about the boy's fate. Slowly but surely, he began to fight for his own life. This wasn't the end of his studies, or even the beginning, but the first step had been taken. He thought, we still have so much work to do.

He was right; this was just the beginning, less for Marek, more for Łukasz. He had once been the butt of his classmates' crude jokes, but essentially stood aside, now he became the target of constant attacks from the boys in his class. "You're so clever," little Ząbkowicz shouted during almost every break, followed by a group of other teenagers. Hell had broken loose for the boy. He clenched his fists tightly and refused to show anyone he wanted to cry. He stuck to Marek's words, "Don't give in." And he didn't. Of course, he didn't stand idly by. Whenever he had the chance, he punched the bolder tormentors in the nose when no one was looking. Ząbkiewicz was the worst.

"Brylen lens," he yelled, not even looking at the teachers, who not only tried to ignore the boy's behavior but even seemed clearly amused by the whole situation. After all, even if someone had considered this situation pathological, they certainly wouldn't have started a war with the woman who was running the entire marketplace and the surrounding area to protect a child, a bum.

Maciek had finally had enough. During one of the breaks, he caught his tormentor when he was alone.

"What are you going to do now, you stinker

?

" "Get your ass kicked.

" "You sure didn't beat..."

He didn't get to finish. Maciek, despite being a head shorter, quickly kicked the teachers' pet in the front of the shin, then punched him in the stomach.

"Without your friends and teachers, you're not as tough as

you look." He spat and slowly walked away without looking back. Rafał Ząbkiewicz curled up in a ball, sucking in air like a balloon.

Ząbkiewicz was late for class. He sat down at his desk, then motioned Bednarczyk with a clear hand movement along the front of his neck. After class, he caught up with his gang. Maciek ran to the rectory, crying. At the sight of Marek, the boys scattered, abandoning their victim.

"What happened, Maciek?

" "They broke my glasses.

" "Why?

" "I broke Ząbkowicz's during recess, and after class, he attacked me with his gang.

" "Did they beat you badly?

" "No. I bruised their eyes, but they broke my glasses."

"On the one hand, you deserve praise for beating up a guy who's a head taller than you. But I also have to scold you. You know everyone will always be against you. No one will stand up for you against that terrible Ząbkowicz woman. She even went to the bishop to tell him I bought you glasses.

" "Disgusting witch.

" "Don't say that, don't judge people. Sometimes it's better to turn the other way than to start a stupid argument that won't win anything.

" "Maybe the priest is right.

" "Okay, but now we can't dwell on what's right and what's wrong, we just have to go to the ophthalmologist and then to the optician."

Marek arranged with the priest that Michał would lead this evening's mass, and he spent the entire day first at the ophthalmologist and then at the optician. Luckily, the optician had a second pair of lenses, just like the ones they ordered earlier. He also paid for the extra glasses. They were supposed to be done in two weeks.

" "Now, Maciek, you need to take better care of your glasses." Better than before.

The next day, Marek arrived at school ten minutes earlier than usual. Despite this, Mrs. Ząbkiewicz was already there with her son. She pointed to Rafał's bruised eye and shouted to the entire staff room,

"That devil beat my child twice, and you don't even react.

" "From what I saw," Marek interjected, "your son, along with three other boys, attacked Maciek after class and broke his glasses. The boy was only defending himself so he could escape. Besides, if it weren't for me, they probably would have beaten him more severely.

" "You're defending this scoundrel. I work hard here, and they let my child be beaten like that.

" "Mrs. Ząbkiewicz, he's just a child," he tried to defend himself against four boys bigger than himself.

"Father, you'd better play football, you don't know anything about children. You didn't raise your own, so you don't know." And from the seed of a thief, only a thief can grow.

Disgusted, Marek left the teachers' lounge and went to class early. Besides the students, the teachers also joined the attack on Maciek. Although he wrote better and better tests after tests, they never checked them, only crossing them out in red and writing two. Maciek would come to the rectory devastated, ready to cry.

"So, will you give in, Maciek? Will you give them the satisfaction?

" "No!"

He gritted his teeth and got to work. Marek worked with the boy more and more. Somehow, he managed to convince Marta, a teacher from a neighboring school, to tutor him.

"He's not the dumbest boy," she said. "It's strange that for so long no one noticed his vision problems.

" "That's the way of the world."

The boy made rapid progress. By the end of the school year, he had reached the level of the weaker students in his class. Despite Ząbkiewiczowa's best efforts, the teachers decided to promote the boy to sixth grade.

During the summer, Marek took Maciek to an oasis. He helped buy some clothes and convinced the boy's mother to go. His father, a drunkard, wasn't interested in anything, one less problem. For Maciek, who never left his housing estate, it was a great adventure. He saw the sea for the first time. He sang loudest when, in the first rays of sunlight, they celebrated Sunday Mass on a makeshift altar on the Baltic coast. As he rose, as if from the silence of recollection, the murmur of waves lapping the shore and the squawk of seagulls gathering fish washed ashore during the night emerged. Maciek understood the meaning of life. He understood what he had to fight for. When he was in the forest, he questioned everything, every tree, every herb. He listened with delight to the birds, spotting them in the treetops; he could spend hours watching ants scurry around an anthill. That's what life was all about.

After the holidays, they returned to school.

Marek was happy. Despite this, he didn't tell anyone; he celebrated evening mass as usual, played soccer with the children, and played the guitar in his spare time. When he talked about Maciek with the parish priest, they laughed at Ząbkowiczowa, who came to complain more and more often as Maciek began to excel over the other students over the next two years. With difficulty, the teachers convinced him to write Cs instead of the usual Ds. But never anything more, even though the boy was starting to stand out from the rest of the class. No one wanted to notice. After all, he was the son of a bum, the worst in the class.

May that year was warm. Marek, after the evening mass, returned to the rectory. The setting sun's rays played with their brilliance, reflecting in the newly built stained glass windows. They danced like forest sprites as the priest approached the rectory. "How beautiful reflections of light can be sometimes," he thought. Then he saw him. Łukasz stood at the door. Much taller than the day he'd first arrived. He'd changed, speaking a nicer language, trying to imitate Marek, not the neighborhood "Latin" he'd spoken during their first encounter. He was someone else. He'd changed. But that day, although clean, impeccably combed, and in normal clothes, he still had something of the savage he'd met over two years ago. He was pale. "

Maciek, what happened?" he asked anxiously .

"My father killed my mother. They were drinking together, as usual. At one point, he took a knife and stabbed her in the stomach, screaming, 'You deserved it, you whore.' I ran to a neighbor's, she called the police. Now they're taking a list of everyone. I ran away.

"Maciek, you have to talk to the police.

" "I have to tell on my father.

" "No. But you can't hide."

He took Maciek to a room, gave him some warm water and, with his knowledge, called the police.

Two policemen arrived. Young, but they were still very vulgar around him. Marek intervened several times. "Gentlemen, this boy has been through a tragedy.

It helped a little; they stopped intimidating the boy.

" The next two weeks were a struggle for Marek. He raged, winning with the help of the bishop's curia that the boy could study at the same school and sleep in the dormitory of a nearby vocational school.

Spring brings hope. So they say... But for Maciek, it was as if they had died. He didn't really care about his father or mother. Neither of them cared for him, and there were no fond memories associated with them, but what he saw could have moved a rock. And he, despite being mentally much older than his peers, was only a 13-year-old boy who had to face the fact that his father was not only a drunkard and a thief, but also a murderer. It was a mark etched on his face, visible in every step, etched deep in the recesses of his soul.

With Marek and Marta's help, he somehow made it to the end of the year. Marek sent him to summer camps and oases. It somehow helped. The inhumanly beautiful roar of the waves, the sight of the raging sea during a storm, the billows tearing away fragments of the seaside dunes like giant hands, the music playing among the pine trees of the coastal forest. It all helped somehow. He began to recover. He slowly began to regain the zest for life that Marek had awakened in him.

When eighth grade began, Maciek clearly towered over his peers, yet he still got Cs. But he didn't care. He studied hard. "Fight, fight," he heard Father Marek's words every day. And he fought. But without joy. In silence. He continued to sit on the sidelines, as if distant from everyone.

He continued to confide in Marek. He held no secrets from him, but he was no longer the same boy he'd met a few years ago. He was even more secretive than before, but more distant. Despite his reputation as an outstanding student, he graduated with straight A's. No one gave the murderer's son a better grade, especially considering the intense efforts of Ząbkiewicz's wife, who did everything she could to get the boy expelled from school. She wrote denunciations to the curia, the education office, and the local newspaper. Fortunately for him, no one took much notice. But they had some effect; no one dared to write him a C.

After the graduation ceremony, he came to Marek.

"Only Cs," he said, discouraged, "not even a single C.

" "Do you think you should have received better grades?

" "Yes.

" "Don't worry, it's not what's on your report card, it's what's in your head.

" "Maybe your father is right.

" "How did the graduation ceremony go?

" "Ząbkiewicz received the award for best student. With a 5.0 average.

" "Do you know where he wants to apply?

" "To a C.

" "And you?"

"I was considering a vocational school, but when they gave that idiot those grades, I told him I'd go to a second-grade school.

" "You know, it's the best high school in town. There are a lot of applicants

." Father himself said not to be afraid of a challenge.

"But it's a huge challenge; there are usually five applicants for one spot.

" "The bigger the challenge, the bigger the reward.

" "So when do we start?

" "Ideally, right now.

" "Okay!"

He called Marta. With some reluctance, she came and started teaching him. She was an excellent Polish teacher. She also asked her math friend. They were in agreement. He's a very talented young man. He spent hours poring over books, writing essays, solving math problems. He sat all day at the rectory, as if in a trance, constantly studying.

The day before the exams, he and Marek went to the seaside.

"Maciek, now you have probably the hardest exam of your life." Not because it's the most difficult in terms of content—there will be those for whom this one is a walk hand in hand—but because no one except Marta and me believes you'll get in. Don't study anymore today. After this walk, go to bed.

They walked for a few hours. They drank orange soda together. Then they went to the cathedral. They attended mass. Then they returned to Marek's rectory. Kowalska dug out a suit from the Caritas clothes that seemed tailored to Maciek. He went to boarding school.

He'll sleep soundly tonight. He knows what he's worth. He knows he has to pass and get in, despite everyone, despite the doubters, despite Ząbkiewiczowa's laughter. "That idiot." Despite the ironic remarks he's heard to the teachers at school. He has to do it. And he will.

Maciek didn't want Marek to accompany him. The entrance exam lasted two days. The written exam was on Monday in Polish, and on Tuesday in math. It didn't arrive until Tuesday.

"How did you do?

" "Strange topics in Polish.

" "I know, I heard.

" "Quite difficult questions in math.

" "When are the results?

" "They're supposed to be posted on Friday at 12:00; there were seven candidates for one spot.

" "Do you want us to go together?

" "Fine."

These three days flew by with particular tension for both of them. On Friday, Maciek arrived at 10:00. They went together. They walked slowly for over an hour, talking about everything: life, religion, Maciek's plans, a little about Father Marek.

"Why did you help me, Father?

" "You see, when I was seven, my parents died in an accident. I grew up in an orphanage. I wasn't prepared for anything, no principles were instilled in me. My life was empty.

" "So what happened that made my father become a priest?

" "After school, my friends took me to a religion class; they were still at parishes back then.

" "And that was enough?"

"No, that wasn't enough. In eighth grade, a new priest came, and under his influence, after graduating from high school, I went to the seminary. I wanted to help people like me.

" "Father, don't you have any regrets?

" "You know, it's not worth thinking about what could have happened. I'm happy with what I do and I like it.

" "Is it a vocation?

" "You can call it a vocation if you like.

" "I would never want to be a priest.

" "Everyone has a different vocation.

" "What am I vocation to?

" "You'll discover it someday. Everything will come in its own time. You can't rush anything in life. It's not worth it!"

They entered the school grounds. They had already posted the list of those accepted and those rejected on the door. It's probably even better that they thought almost simultaneously. We won't have to push each other.

"Which list do we start with?

" "The ones rejected.

" "Why?

" "If I didn't get in, at least I'll know who I was with." Eight people from my class tried to get in.

They started looking for Maciek's name. They were also looking for the names of other kids from the school. The list surprised them a bit. One of the first rejected candidates was Rafał Ząbkiewicz. Mathematics 2.0, Polish 3.0. They didn't find Maciek. They saw Ząbkiewicz's wife, who, to her surprise, found her son on the rejected list. "It's impossible," she shouted. "It must be a mistake."

Marek and Maciek moved on to the second list. She surprised them. Maciek was in first place. They jumped at each other. Marek kissed him on the forehead with joy, the way one kisses a son.

"I passed," Maciek shouted. "I passed. I passed."

At that moment, he resembled the devil. As if something evil had gotten into him. Or rather, with a shout, he unleashed his desires, the fulfillment of which, despite his boastful declarations, he himself didn't fully believe he could achieve. He was the best. The student who, according to his teachers, had no chance of getting into vocational school, passed best of all.

"I told you, Maciek! You can do it."

Ząbkiewiczowa stared at them open-mouthed. "It's impossible. It won't end like this. Someone will answer for this." She ran quickly into the building.

Maciek and Father Marek were leaving happily. Passing a window, which, as Maciek later learned, was the principal's window, they heard Ząbkiewiczowa's unearthly scream. It was so loud that it was impossible not to stop for a moment.

"It's a mistake. My Rafał..." And that idiot... The son of an alcoholic... I'll call the right person...

" "Madam, this boy you're talking about wrote the most beautiful essay, worthy of a high school exam, not a high school entrance exam..."

He was surprised. Very proud. He had finally done something extraordinary, something unique. Could he have believed it five years ago?

The neighborhood was buzzing about it. The priest congratulated Marek.

"Despite everything, I didn't believe this boy could achieve something like that.

" "I didn't expect such a run either.

" The priest had heard people talking about Ząbkiewiczowa. She went to the school board to complain.

The priest looked at Marek.

"They sent an inspection to the two." When she didn't confirm Ząbkiewiczowa's allegations, even though her son was considered for a possible appeal, he was the first on the list to be denied admission.

"Sometimes people think everything can be resolved by force."

He never saw Maciek again. In the slowly moving electric train, he wondered. Why? His eyes filled with tears. Listening to the clatter of wheels, sad, he didn't understand anything of what had happened.

Two days after Maciek's exam, the priest asked him. He was a bit surprised by the strangely official tone of this kind man.

"I have sad news for you, Father." Father has been transferred to the Sacred Heart of Jesus parish in Podgrodzie Górne. I just returned from the curia.

"I don't understand.

" "A priest must understand that sometimes you have to make sacrifices. Although, personally, I disagree with the allegations against you.

" "What happened?

" "Ms. Ząbkiewicz collected 40 signatures from parents claiming the priest molested boys at school.

" "What? Where did she come up with such nonsense?

" "Apparently, the priest kissed a boy in front of the school.

" "Yes, but what does a father's kiss have to do with molesting boys? I didn't think about what I was doing; we were happy.

" "She wrote that it had happened before, and other parents confirmed it.

" "It's nonsense, made up entirely.

" "I know it's nonsense. I know what kind of person Ms. Ząbkiewiczowa is. But the curia must have gone to a lot of trouble to keep your name out of the local press. They said they had to transfer you.

" "But that's nonsense."

"Sometimes nonsense rules our lives. Oh, and one more thing: a priest, for now, can't work with children.

Now he was on this train, bound for the edge of the world, stripped of everything of value. Or at least of what he considered his life's value.

The new priest was a fat, boorish man, practically without any inhibitions. He openly had sex with the housekeeper. The parish was located in a typical former state-owned farm community, where no one wants to work and everyone drinks themselves to death.

" "The priest was sent here for pedophilia.

" "For slander.

" "Don't joke, Father, they send them to places like that as punishment, me for women, and you for something like that.

" "I'm sorry..."

"Father, be careful with the locals. Ślimakowa has already spread the word to everyone in the village that you like boys. If you get close to one of these kids, the locals would be ready to put you on the spot.

" "But this is despicable! Such things among the parishioners...

" "I didn't say anything; I don't know who gave Ślimakowa this information. Certainly not me. But it happened. These are the facts. And Father, don't be so nervous and tell the difference between good advice and despicable behavior. Father, always wonder who is your ally and who is your enemy."

He couldn't find his place here. He felt antipathy towards these people. They kept telling him he was a pedophile. How much could he do? He fell into depression. Apathy and discouragement grew. He couldn't find his place here.

Where did he get the gun? It wasn't a problem then. The Russians, who didn't know how long they would be here, were selling everything for next to nothing. He had taken a gun from one of the parishioners while he was drunkenly waving it in front of his wife. It had been locked in his desk. Now he picked it up and put it in his pocket. He went to church.

The new parish priest was a very resourceful man, able to take advantage of any situation. Not only was he able to conceal the terrible truth, but thanks to this tragedy, he was also able to rummage through the apartments of his parishioners and extract a few coins. The following Sunday, he repeated the same words over and over during the parish announcements.

"This terrible tragedy that befell our dear brother Marek could have touched any of us. It allows us to realize the poor condition of our humble church. I appeal for generosity for the needs of the church. I know these are difficult times, but unfortunately, the needs of these old walls are great."

That was enough for everyone. Only Maślakowa went around the village repeating,

"Kumo, this is God's punishment. It's because of those kids who eat in the city..." that the chandelier fell on him. The good Christ protected our children.

He was dressed in an elegant coat. His shiny boots gently trampled the fallen leaves lying on the never-cleared road that ran through the center of this small village. He walked slowly. He wasn't particularly tall, nor particularly handsome. However, his face stood out clearly among the locals, bloodshot from the vodka he'd consumed. He walked with a petite brunette with a rather dark complexion, causing quite a stir among the locals. They slowly entered the cemetery and headed towards the forgotten grave of a young priest who had been crushed by a falling chandelier a few years earlier.

"I wanted to see you. To tell you I'd made it. To show my wife to your father. I'd finished my studies. And I remember how everyone thought I'd never learn to read. Not even myself."

He stood for a long time. Light gusts of warm autumn wind brushed his face. With gentle hand movements, he chased away the leaves that fell on it every now and then. Golden Polish autumn.

"Podemos ir." She placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Si, Concha. Podemos ir."

She was right. He had to be at his office in the City the day after tomorrow. He had to catch a plane. His employers hadn't given such a young man such a high-ranking position in their London branch to tolerate his lateness. That's how the Japanese are.

He didn't know when he'd be back, but he was certain he would return someday. This was the only true friend in his entire youth. The friend to whom he owed everything he had achieved. The friend everyone would love to have, but the one he wasn't allowed to have.