St. Kinga

Stary Sącz is a town shrouded in ancient mysteries and wonders. Most of its citizens have never devoted more than a few minutes in their lives to researching the events that took place in the Stary Sącz region. Only the oldest residents of Stary Sącz search their memories on long winter evenings, searching for stories passed down from generation to generation. Local youth participating in tours of the Regional Museum listen with feigned curiosity to the melancholic voice of their guide, imploring the heavens to return to their homes as quickly as possible. Very few people wander Stary Sącz after dusk, and those who dared venture outside the warm confines of their homes could become easy prey for street thieves.

One spring night, a small group of young people made their way through the winding streets of the town, watched through the silent windows of random houses. Knock-knock, knock-knock—the cobblestones resounded beneath their feet in an almost melodic rhythm. The sound of many pairs of feet was accompanied by lively conversation, occasionally interrupted by thunderous laughter. Passersby looked reluctantly at the group of young people. If one finally managed to steal a quick glance, they were met with the sight of youths dressed in "skeet" attire, cigarettes in their hands, which occasionally flew to their lips. Some held bottles of cheap alcohol, squeezing the delicate necks with trembling hands.

At the head of the group, a girl who looked no older than 16 tottered. Her hair, loosely falling around her shoulders, was a deep auburn color, with dark red streaks peeking through here and there. Her eyes were as black as two beetles. She wore loose jeans with a visible "Clinic" patch, a black short-sleeved blouse that revealed part of her navel, and Nike indoor shoes. Two small, elegant, round earrings were stuck in her ears. Her lips were smeared with a devilishly red lipstick, and her eyelashes were curled upwards. In her right hand, she held a half-smoked cigarette, in the other an empty beer bottle.

Suddenly, the girl stopped in front of one of the humpbacked houses, whose closed wooden shutters gazed indifferently into the distance. The rest of the young people did the same. Taking advantage of the opportunity, bottles of alcohol made their way to the mouths of the people holding them at increasingly longer intervals.

The girl said a few words in farewell, exchanged friendly hugs and smiles, and then, in one swift leap, jumped over the low wall surrounding the humpbacked house.

"She-devil, we'll pick you up tomorrow at the same time with the crew," one of the people said, brimming with alcoholic insouciance.

"Sure," the "she-devil" replied in a similar tone, then slowly approached the wooden door, somewhat weathered by time and woodworm, opening it with the key she had previously pulled out. It seemed the door would open with a terrifying creaking sound that would wake half the neighborhood, but that didn't happen—thanks to a cleverly prepared lubricant her mother had recently purchased at a home improvement store.

The "she-devil" quietly closed the door, turning the special handle on the inside twice. She intended to tiptoe across the ground floor and get to her room as quickly as possible, but that wasn't in her plan. Suddenly, like a highwayman waiting for passing merchants, the "she-devil's" mother emerged from around the corner leading to the kitchen. The girl groaned inwardly. She realized she wasn't completely sober, and her clothes were saturated with cigarette smoke and the unbearable smell of alcohol.

"Kinga! " Where have you been?!" the woman shrieked softly. "Have you been poisoning yourself with that filth again?" the girl's mother wrinkled her aquiline nose in distaste.

Kinga's mother was a woman who looked to be in her forties. Her features were sharp and severe. Her eyes were a deep brown, surrounded by a network of wrinkles. Her hair, identically auburn to her daughter's, was laced with several curlers. In the semi-darkness, she looked stern and dangerous, but in everyday life she was a good mother and a model Catholic, something she herself had no idea about.

"Mom, it's nothing. This is the last time, really," Kinga apologized.

"Yes, yes, you've been saying that for six months!" she huffed at her daughter, an angry glint dancing in her brown eyes.

After a long moment of awkward silence, Kinga's mother, acting as a "devil," said a little more gently:

"Okay, okay." I'll make you dinner and something for your headache, and in the meantime, you go take a shower. Well, what are you waiting for?" Kinga looked mournfully at her mother, then slowly walked away toward the bathroom. The woman sighed deeply and, with a worried expression, began preparing dinner.

When the "she-devil's" mother finished preparing dinner, she herself was just emerging from the bathroom. She slipped into a clean set of nightclothes, threw a silk robe over it, and went downstairs. She felt dizzy and terribly sleepy—as she usually did when returning from nighttime strolls with the "crew." She glanced at the impeccably clean kitchen, in the center of which stood a large wooden table. On it stood a plate with several sandwiches spread with jam and honey, and next to it a mug steaming.

"Here, take this and drink some water," said Kinga's mother, who suddenly emerged from the bedroom. Her features were still stern and angry, but less so than they had been a few minutes ago.

"Thanks, Mom," the girl replied weakly, then in one swift movement popped two aspirin tablets into her mouth, then washed them down with cool, boiled water.

Knowing the medication wouldn't work immediately, she sat down on one of the wooden chairs with a gloomy expression and began to eat dinner. Kinga didn't quite remember what she'd done with the "crew." Her only memory was the entire "crew" arriving at her house, her mother's assurance that this time she wouldn't drink a drop, followed by the sound of bottle caps being popped open and the smell of smoke being inhaled. While eating dinner, Kinga's mother stared at her with eyes filled with concern and pain. Her face gradually expressed deep thought, and her eyes seemed to become misty every now and then. After finishing her dinner, the girl said, "Thank you." Then, intending to go to bed and facing the unpleasant prospect of a headache tomorrow, she rose from her chair. Her mother, suddenly roused from her deep thoughts, said suddenly,

"Kinguś, wait a moment. I have something to tell you."

The surprised teenager sat down again, then, with polite expectation and, at the same time, not-so-well-concealed impatience on her face, she fixed her gaze on her mother's once-again dimmed eyes. A minute or two passed, and the impatience on Kinga's face was already clearly visible. The "devil" was about to get up when suddenly—as usual—her mother asked in an uncertain voice,

"Honey, tomorrow is Sunday, you know that, right?" The girl found the question utterly idiotic, but then she remembered that her mother always approached everything gradually—step by step, just like a child taking its first steps.

"Yes, Mom." "

Remember when you were little, and my father and I used to go to the Poor Clares' Convent?" The question forced its way through the honest woman's throat with the greatest difficulty.

Kinga's face took on a serious and nervous expression. Her father had died exactly six months ago of a heart attack—he was only 45 years old. The girl remembered that since then she had found solace in alcohol and cigarettes. At first, it had been very difficult—the uncontrollable urge to drown memories and grim events in beer bottles and smother them in cigarette smoke only worked with a "crew." From then on, she had sunk as low as she could. She was aware of this, but she refused to acknowledge it. Talking about her late father always put her in a bad mood, and she hadn't spoken to her mother about the deceased in two months. Kinga nodded gloomily.

"But-uh, when he-uh died, you lost interest in Catholic life." She resumed her discussion.

A grim nod.

"I'm asking you to start going to the Temple of God again tomorrow. We'll go there together at 11:00, so be prepared." The woman blurted out in one breath, then took a desperate breath.

Kinga stared at her creator with astonishment for a moment, but after a moment, she recovered from her initial shock, saying in an icy tone,

"No way." Kinga's mother looked indignant.

The girl tried to stand up again, but her mother grabbed her arm firmly and said firmly,

"I'm your mother, and you have to listen to me. Tomorrow we'll go to Church together, regardless of your 'I see you'!"

This time Kinga was clearly indignant.

"I'm not going anywhere!" she screamed in protest. "You have no right to force me to believe in this... this... this faith for the undeveloped!" "She said in a sharper tone, then yanked her arm from her mother's grasp and ran upstairs.

She had no idea what had possessed her mother—perhaps she thought the Church would eradicate her bad habits. "Oh no, I'm not going anywhere!" the girl said to herself, then hid in the warm duvet, and sleep instantly ensnared her.

Her dream wasn't the most pleasant—through the hazy eyes of sleep, she saw herself in a vast clearing. Suddenly, from behind the round cloud, her father's face emerged, exactly as she remembered it—fair hair, friendly and beautiful features, a shapely nose and ears, and the identical black eyes that Kinga had inherited from him.

"Hello, Kinga," he greeted his daughter in a calm yet mysterious voice, as if echoing in her head. "I've been watching you since my death, and I see that life isn't going well for you." That same mysterious, calm voice spoke again. "You don't listen to your mother, you annoy people, you don't go to church, you don't visit me at the cemetery..." The realization of these words was very painful for Kinga, but completely true. "Your mother asked you to go to church with her. I beg you, go to the Temple and pray for me. Nothing would make me happier than your and your mother's happiness.... Please fulfill my requests, in my memory." And now goodbye... - the clearing began to blur, and a familiar voice began to call, "Kinga, Kinga, get up! Don't delay, we'll be late for church!" - it was her mother's voice.

The girl opened her eyes abruptly, unable to distinguish reality from dream. She remembered the clearing, her father, and his calm, soothing voice asking for a favor... a favor he had to perform...

- Kinga, Kinga, get up, it's already half past ten!" - her mother's voice called with increasing anxiety.

The teenager hurriedly put on the festive clothes she had prepared earlier and ran down the stairs.

"Here's your breakfast," she said in greeting to her only daughter, gesturing with her chin to the bowl of milk and oatmeal. "Hurry, we can't be late," her mother urged Kinga.

The "devil" began to quickly eat her breakfast, but her thoughts weren't focused on absorbing food—they wandered around her father and the wonderful sleep she'd had... But something didn't feel right for the girl—something was missing, one of her daily routines was missing...

Kinga suddenly realized that her head didn't hurt at all—strange, she thought. It had never happened to her before after drinking a few cans of beer. And suddenly it dawned on her—yes, my father brought me this relief, thus encouraging me to cross the threshold of the Temple of God, she thought again.

After finishing their meal, Kinga and her mother left the house, heading towards the bus stop. Five minutes passed before the bus arrived, which turned out to be an old, creaking can. Traveling the rather long distance in an old bus, Kinga was consumed by thoughts of her father and God. When the bus stopped next to a rusty sign, Kinga and

her mother disembarked and, walking quickly, reached the Poor Clares Convent within a few minutes. Sunday Mass was slowly beginning, and the monotonous singing of holy psalms came from the depths of the church. As Kinga and her mother entered the convent, Kinga felt a shiver run down her spine. She felt something wonderful—somewhere between excitement and a wonderful, peaceful, spiritual inspiration. She and her mother walked slowly a few steps and then sat down on a wooden pew. The teenager listened to the sermon and everything else with the utmost concentration, never taking her eyes off the altar and the priest. Suddenly, she noticed a priest in a black cassock disappearing into the wooden recesses of the confessional.

"Hmm... It would be a good idea to confess... Go to the confessional," the girl's mother whispered in her ear, seeing her gaze fixed on the confessional.

Kinga nodded understandingly, then cautiously approached the confessional. She remembered the opening of the confessional well. She began to recall all her sins—oh, this is going to be a lot—she thought, then gently touched her knees to the hard kneeler and began her confession. Listening to the absolution, Kinga felt a great sense of relief. She finally blurted out what had been troubling her. Her penance was to recite 10 Hail Marys and 10 Our Fathers. When she left the confessional, Communion began, so she slowly approached the altar and knelt on the carpeted marble steps.

"The Body of Christ," said the priest in a white cassock.

"Amen. " - Kinga replied piously, then slightly opened her mouth, and after a moment the Host appeared in it.

The girl, her hands folded, walked away from the altar and, sitting down in a pew, began to pray fervently. As Sunday Mass drew to a close, the teenager felt filled with peace of mind and spirit. Stepping out onto the sun-drenched street, Kinga noticed a group of young people walking and chatting happily. Her "crew" usually carried countless cans of beer and cigarettes, while the young people she saw carried books instead of beer and rosaries instead of cigarettes. In the distance, the girl saw an unexpected sight – the "crew" was heading toward the Temple, bumping into people along the way. At one point, one of the "crew" members pushed an elderly man who appeared to be in his 60s, causing him to stumble backward and almost fall. The old man looked at the "crew," who were laughing uproariously, and then began shouting at them. The teenager didn't like this situation, so she hesitantly approached the "crew" and the old man. One of the girls in the "crew" said to her,

"Devil, you won't believe what this guy is saying!" Her breath reeked of alcohol and cigarette smoke. "He's only angry because Janek pushed him!" Kinga's face lit up with indignation.

"You know he's an old man—why are you pushing him?" she scolded her friends.

"What...? Have you been drinking?" one of the boys asked, followed by a roar of laughter from the "crew."

"Get out of here, I see our dear friend has become a favorite of the Church," said the fair-haired girl, and the "crew" slowly walked away toward the north, disappearing around a bend.

"Thank you, miss." "said the out-of-breath old man and disappeared into the depths of the Temple of God, muttering something distastefully like, "... for no respect for the elderly...".

At one point, Kinga was approached by young people carrying books and rosaries. The boys were dressed in white shirts and black or navy blue jeans, the girls wore black skirts and white blouses.

"You did the right thing by interceding for that old man," the girl with brown hair and eyes turned to Kinga. "We have to help all the elderly," she said again, after which there was a moment of silence.

"Were these your friends?" asked the boy with black hair.

"I'm afraid they WERE," Kinga replied.

"Don't worry, it's good you're not friends with them anymore," said another girl with green eyes. "They're just... bad.

" "Yeah, I guess you're right," Kinga said in a somewhat sad voice.

"Hmm... I think we can get to know each other a little better," said the same girl.

The "devil" smiled and then continued to get to know the pious youth better.

Kinga found friends in them. Every Sunday, she went with them to the Temple of God, praying especially for Kinga's father. After a few months, Kinga learned that all her former friends had entered a rehab center and were still there. Kinga and her mother were getting along better and better. They got along great. Kinga helped anyone in need as much as she could. Together with her mother and friends, they organized free meals for the poor and unemployed. Her friends began to call Kinga "saint," and her father, incredibly proud of his only daughter, watched over everything.