Kiss

 

In contemporary Warsaw, which still breathes the foul breath of World War II on its inhabitants, an extraordinary story has unfolded…

Commemorative plaques, museums, monuments, graves – Warsaw is full of places of national remembrance. These places are usually visited by weary old men. The capital no longer resembles the pre-war one remembered by grandparents – a robust, cultured city where women wore furs, men wore hats, and Mr. Wedel ran a confectionary. Now there are glass skyscrapers towering to the clouds, and people from all over Poland immersed in their work. Fast. Hard-working. Furious.

Mr. Edward Świerczewski is a widower. His wife, a medic, died during the war. Mr. Świerczewski remembers her very well. They met when they were nineteen, at a scout camp, when Mrs. Jadwiga was keeping watch at night. It was 1923 or 1924 – Mr. Edward doesn't remember it very well himself. After the holidays, they would go to the park, to a café, to a dance, or to the theater. Mrs. Jadwiga's golden curls were always combed to the right. He lived in Praga with his older brother, and she in the Old Town with her parents. Then, when they married in 1934 (Ms. Jadwiga wore her grandmother's wedding dress), they moved into an apartment rented from a Jewish man, above a small haberdashery shop. When war broke out in 1939, Mrs. Świerczewska became a nurse, and Mr. Świerczewski organized the Grey Ranks. Two years later, Mr. Edward returned home one evening to find his wife gone. Around three in the morning, while it was still dark, someone unexpectedly began pounding on the door. When Mr. Edward opened it, a golden-haired angel fell limply to the ground. So the master of the house took the holy body in his arms, began to cry, and a few days later buried it at Powązki Cemetery.

Powązki is a complex of historic cemeteries. The burial place of Warsaw's bourgeoisie, including Catholics, Protestants, Jews, military personnel, artists, and scholars, rests there. Built in the late 18th century, it exudes a mystical atmosphere thanks to its ancient tombstones, monuments, and enormous trees. Surrounded by a high, gray wall, it creates a sort of secret garden of the dead. It's a microclimate, a world within a world, a state within a state, another dimension. It seems that only a select few—the elderly—are permitted to enter. So, stooped ladies and gentlemen enter through the massive, ivy-covered gate.

Mr. Edward Świerczewski also enters through this gate every Sunday. He's taciturn, completely gray, and probably already a hundred years old. He comes here to visit the grave of his wife, Mrs. Jadwiga. When they separated, they were thirty-seven—what a beautiful age! They couldn't have children, so they spent time together constantly. Mr. Edward wasn't particularly handsome in his youth, but he always had a heart of gold and the soul of a poet. As Mrs. Jadwiga used to say, he was "uncouth." They often unexpectedly traveled to Zakopane and stayed overnight in mountain huts, then to Krakow and stayed up late in pubs. Although still a young man after the war, Mr. Edward never married, what's more, never even fell in love again. He settled permanently in his old apartment in Praga. He became an accountant and has maintained a nearly unchanged lifestyle for sixty years, despite retiring in the meantime. Every morning he goes to the store, then to church, to a veterans' meeting, and on Sundays to his wife's grave.

Mr. Edward still seems to live in the early 1940s. Even when strolling along snobbish Nowy Świat Street or crowded Marszałkowska Street or Aleje Jerozolimskie, he's as gallant as he was back then. When he comes home, he listens to old records on a turntable and probably doesn't even know that compact discs and color televisions exist. Some might say Mr. Edward is stuck in time. However, considering the old man's age, no one would dare say such a thing. After all, he's not harming anyone by constantly listening to the same tunes, browsing through his youthful stamp collection, and not listening to the radio. A man walks with his head down, seeing the same sidewalk as sixty years ago, so why should he be surprised? Mr. Edward is calm.

With such a downcast head, Mr. Edward entered the Catholic Powązki Cemetery one Sunday. God Almighty! After more than half a century, Mr. Edward realized for the first time that Mrs. Jadwiga was dead. That he was alone. So useless. So old and so sad, because so lonely. He sat down on a tin bench and finally became convinced that he was alone. The old man was like old Zeus, the grave of his dearest wife like the bed of his beloved goddess, the snow like a divine blanket surrounding the world of ancient gods, the thin branches of old trees like divine servants, and the cemetery itself like Olympus. Suddenly, the world began to dance before Mr. Edward's eyes. The divine servants began to purr menacingly, a white mist began to waltz joyfully, and the beloved goddess emerged from beneath the sandy blanket. "Sweetest Jesus – Jadzia!" Mr. Edward exclaimed. The beloved creature said nothing but playfully glanced in the man's direction. The autumn-dried ivy that covered the high cemetery walls turned green with emotion, and the pointed branches of the bare trees, the divine servants, fell silent. The whole world was suddenly so quiet. It was so still. The golden-haired goddess grew serious, and old Zeus allowed himself to be lost in a fatal kiss.

Mr. Edward sat with his head bowed for quite a while on the tin bench, and it was winter, so he froze. And his love, if not for recent events, might have seemed like a dream, for he met his beloved in the evening and lost her in the morning.