Canteen

 

They said it was unnecessary. They doubted who would come? They claimed there was no such problem. They threw up their hands – lack of resources. They fenced it off with a barrier of paragraphs, regulations, and ordinances. The wall of animosity and impediments grew with each dispassionate face assigned to the desk kingdom. Each stamp on the application was paid for by hours of battle. Alliances and coalitions were forged. The arguments were fired in abundance. Those affected by this battle remained hidden. No, that's not it! It was others who didn't notice their existence. Because the topic was shameful. Because it was more convenient. After all, they were an element, a fringe of society in their world. The easiest way was to adopt the three-monkey strategy. We didn't give up. We harassed the enemy with volleys of phone calls, letters, and applications. The sabotage behind enemy lines undermined their morale. Deserters began to defect to our side. We gained the upper hand in the Council – the application passed.

***

Today, a year later, I recall those moments with a smile. The soup kitchen was up and running, already a fixture in the cityscape. A problem that hadn't existed suddenly grew to exorbitant proportions. The homeless, the unemployed, those lacking the means to survive. Twenty, fifty, one hundred, three hundred, five hundred meals a day. We reached the maximum of our capabilities. The "guests," initially distrustful, hostile, rebelling against the regulations (no alcohol, drugs, stimulants, polite behavior), slowly began to break down the wall of their loneliness. They began to shed the burden of hopelessness. Life, just to live until tomorrow, until Saturday, until spring... until the next day. My table, standing off to the side in the corner, with the name "therapist," aroused their distrust, even hostility. I was a thorn in the flesh of their closed world.

"Why the hell are you sitting here, you idiot?"

Their furtive glances seemed to say.

"We don't want you here. Get out."

They added, their hunched backs turned toward me.

"We don't care about you! "

Spit erupted on the floor. Another rule came in.

"Spitting on the floor is prohibited in the dining hall."

They accepted him grumblingly, glancing in my direction with distaste. I didn't impose myself. I simply existed. Like a table, a chair, a soup kettle, I became a fixture. I accustomed them to my presence, to my unfortunate nameplate. I built a subtle bridge to a future understanding. Poking around with my spoon, I observed their faces. Male, female, old, young, bearded, shaved—they had one thing in common. They wore masks of blandness, impersonality. Living mannequins, staring at the contents of their plates. Eat and leave, escape to their own world of anonymity. After a week, they began greeting me with a barely perceptible nod. I responded with the same, smiling secretly. Good, excellent. They're already getting used to it, accepting my presence as something natural. I've blended into their landscape, stopped pricking with the unknown. I'll wait a bit longer, I'm patient, I have time. The turning point came one Saturday afternoon. From the moment the meal service began, there was a palpable sense of excitement in the air. Surreptitious glances and whispers confirmed my suspicion that something was about to happen.

I heard the clatter of a chair being pushed back. A curt blonde woman rose from the table by the window. She glanced uncertainly in my direction. Two little boys, aged four or five, were assisting her. The room fell silent. The clatter of spoons stopped, and the cook froze, a ladle of broth in her hand. Time seemed to have stopped. She swallowed hard and, urged by the stares of the others, moved to my table.

"I'm Nina. May I?"

she asked in a sonorous Russian accent.

"Please."

I gestured to the chair. She sat on the edge, nervously folding her hands. Her eyes began a chaotic dance, searching for a point of contact.

"Forge ahead."

I mentally encouraged her, "This will be your first victory.

" "You know, we'd like to know why you're here?"

She finally blurted out, her voice hoarse with emotion.

"To offer you advice and assistance."

I replied as calmly as I could.

"Meaning?

" "I'd like to help you overcome your personal fears and inhibitions.

" "Like that crazy doctor?"

I could see she wanted to jump out of her chair and run for her life.

"No! Not as a psychiatrist!"

I reassured her, seeing the situation was becoming desperate.

"As a human being. As someone who understands your problems, or at least tries to understand them."

Her eyes widened in surprise. She was speechless. Only those eyes, staring at me, seemed to speak.

"Don't be foolish, my friend. No one acts selflessly." I looked into those eyes and knew the decisive moment had arrived. Either she would leave, dooming my entire mission to failure, or she would stay, finally breaking the ice that had so far separated our two worlds. Time dragged on mercilessly. I could see from the tense muscles of her face that she was waging an internal struggle. A struggle between distrust and curiosity. I sat like a defendant awaiting sentencing—guilty, innocent.

"You know nothing about us. You have your home, your family, your job. What could you possibly know about our existence? About fighting for every penny, for a slice of bread, for a place to sleep?"

The words flowed like a rushing river. Instinctively, I imitated her pose, folding my hands on the tabletop. As she spoke, I relaxed them, palms facing upward. Unconsciously, she repeated my gesture and spoke, speaking. About how she and her son came to Poland from Ukraine, searching for a better tomorrow, a decent life. About how her son and daughter-in-law died in a car accident, leaving her with a mountain of debt and eighteen-month-old twins. About the eviction, about the fight to keep her children. About all the jobs she took just to feed the two of them. About the pain, the despair, the doubt.

Minutes passed, and Nina released all the burden of the past years. Her features smoothed, the tension vanished, only tears glistened in the corners of her eyes. When she finished, she threw herself back in her chair with relief.

"My God! I'm a villager!"

She shook her head in disbelief. Suddenly, she jumped up and grabbed my hands.

"Thank you. Thank you for listening to all this."

Her face flushed, she spun on her heel, and disappeared out the door. The twins ran after her. A moment later, the room was empty. I celebrated my success, smiling blissfully at the cook. The next day, a surprise awaited me. My table was covered with a hand-embroidered linen tablecloth. Red poppies blazed amidst intricately interwoven ears of grain. White elderflowers exuded a sweet aroma from a vase.

Nina smiled mischievously, glancing at me every now and then. With that smile, she looked truly beautiful.

"Is that you, Ninotchka?"

I asked.

"Oh! It's been a long time since anyone called me that."

She laughed joyfully, like a little girl. After a moment, a small queue formed at the table.

"Good morning, Mr. Paul.

" A hand extended toward me. Another, and another. I wasn't alone until the cafeteria closed. They took turns at my table, feeding me with their stories. An ocean of human fates rolled like a storm among the tiny elderflowers. They were shedding the burden of loneliness, of misunderstanding. The burden of being a bum, an alcoholic, a drug addict. At least for a moment they could feel like normal people.

In the following days, paintings appeared on the walls, and hand-woven wicker fruit baskets on the tables. In front of the building, a flowerbed with a mosaic of colorful flowers captivated the eye. They finally found a place where they felt safe. Where, if only for a moment, another human being treated them like one.