The rain continued to fall. A typical Mazovian October was approaching mid-October: most of the leaves, blown away by gusts of easterly wind, had already fallen from the trees. The sun reappeared every few days, casting a disapproving glance at the wet streets, the sad passersby, and the dirty cars. That day, it had been raining since early morning—first drizzling, then pelting thick drops on the tin windowsills of the townhouses in the market square. First Secretary Hieronim Nowak stayed late in his office today, laboriously adapting the template for the report speech sent from Warsaw to local conditions. He aided himself with both permitted means—an obscene number of cigarettes—and prohibited means—real whisky brought by some greengrocer. This work was exhausting him terribly. But what could he do? The report-election meeting was scheduled for a week later, and he had to prepare materials for it. This was no new experience for Nowak. He became secretary in 1968. He had already survived more than one reporting meeting and several minor turmoils that nearly cost him his job. Fortunately, thanks to his innate talent for winning people over and his skillful management of the scarce resources and privileges available to him, he always emerged unscathed from any trouble. He was calm now, too, but he knew he had to prepare himself thoroughly and conscientiously, as always. He was copying down the numbers of new party members in the city when he realized he would turn 45 tomorrow. He put down his pen, reached for the bottle hidden under his desk, and poured himself a glass. "Cheers, Secretary!" he muttered, and downed the drink. He grimaced, opened his desk drawer, pulled out a sandwich, and took a bite. As he chewed, he wondered whether to invite someone home for a party. Maryla, his wife, seemed to have forgotten. No wonder! That church was all she had on her mind! he muttered. He completely failed to understand what had happened to his wife. They met in the autumn of 1956 at a demonstration in front of the Voivodeship Committee. Then they went to Warsaw to applaud Comrade Wiesław. They believed him, and then his successors, and that was how it remained. At least in Hieronim's mind. His activities in the Union of Socialist Youth (ZMS) and later in the party were enough of an ideology for him. He knew that thanks to them they were living quite well. That was exactly what he wanted – a peaceful life. And he achieved it. There were some problems with his mother-in-law when their first child was born. It was about the baptism. There were arguments, tears, and quarrels. He remained steadfast, and so did his wife. This was the point at which Hieronim's views were real and authentic. He didn't believe in God for rational reasons, but simply didn't believe, and that was that. Eventually, his mother-in-law also quieted down. Hieronim was convinced that she had come to terms with his worldview. He was glad he and his wife were on the same side of the barricade. But for the past year, something strange had been happening. The reason was obvious – a Pole had become pope. About a month later, Hieronim discovered to his horror thatThat his wife doesn't go to Jadzia's every Sunday to chat, but runs to church! At first, he wanted to make a scene, but then he decided there was no point. His position in the city was strong enough, and times had changed a bit. So he didn't say anything when his wife started taking his teenage daughters with her, and when she admitted that she had secretly baptized them and secretly sent them to First Communion, he wasn't even particularly surprised. Except that from then on, something had gone sour between them. Hieronim preferred to stay late at work, to go on field trips, rather than stay home with his family. He felt bad that he wasn't devoting more time to his daughters, but at the same time, he couldn't bring himself to do it. So he shouldn't be surprised that his wife forgot his birthday. Maybe it's for the best; there won't be a party, he smiled bitterly.
A sudden gust of wind blew open the shutters, the curtain rose to the ceiling, and with a rattle of frogs slid to the right, revealing the night outside. Nowak shivered. He sighed, placed his hands heavily on the desk, and was about to rise when something glinted in the open window. He froze, half-bent over the desk. On the other side of the windowsill, a man was struggling, hanging in midair. With visible difficulty, he grabbed the window frame. He put his feet on the windowsill, pulled himself clumsily onto his hands, and jumped into the room. Nowak sank into an armchair. A portly man, dressed in a white robe, stood beneath the window, his long blond hair falling over his shoulders, and golden wings rising above his head. No sooner had the secretary registered all this than the newcomer strode briskly across the room and, extending his hand across the table, introduced himself: Gabriel. Nowak mechanically shook the outstretched hand. The visitor said, pointing to the window, "I apologize for this whole circus," and then sat down in the armchair opposite Nowak.
"I'll be brief, Mr.... excuse me, Comrade Hieronim," the visitor began, unfazed by his host's lack of activity. "As you can probably guess, I've come to you with a specific message, information...
" "How...? How did you get here, you leaves?" Nowak stammered.
"Simply," he shrugged, "a boom on a truck, straps under your arms, and a ride up. What kind of faith, such methods?" he added after a moment, more to himself than to his interlocutor.
"I don't understand...
" "Never mind," he smiled again, "there isn't much time, so I'll be brief. Comrade Nowak, you weren't chosen for any mission, nor will you play any special role in history. I simply thought to myself once: what if Nowak knew that there was no need to fool around with this PZPR (Polish United Workers' Party) anymore? What if he knew that a grassroots movement would emerge in a year?" What if he knew that in 10 years there would be near-democratic elections, and in 11 years his party would disband? What if he knew that at the same time the country would abandon socialism and embark on the path of capitalism? I wonder what Comrade Nowak would do if he knew all this? So now the Comrade knows, and what will he do? We'll see! He smiled radiantly at the speechless Nowak, tucked his wings under his arm, and moved toward the window.
"But how...?" Nowak whispered
. "I already told you: a lift on a truck." And disappeared into the darkness outside the window.
Thus ended another day for Hieronim Nowak, First Secretary of the City Committee. It's no exaggeration to say it was a turning point in his life. It seemed nothing had happened. Nowak went home, barely slept, and in the morning, he examined the damp lawn covered with wet leaves outside his window. He found no truck tire tracks. There are people who don't dwell on incomprehensible things—the secretary was one of them. He shrugged off the absence of tracks on the lawn and continued his party life. What impact did that meeting have on him? Perhaps none, perhaps decisive. A year later, Solidarity erupted. Nowak initiated the establishment of the NSZZ Solidarność committee within the PZPR City Committee. An unprecedented event. Another year passed, and on the frosty morning of December 14th, the founders of that committee were self-criticizing and admitting how terribly wrong they had gone. But not Nowak. He handed in his ID and took up selling carrots at a greengrocer's stall. No, he wasn't part of the opposition, he didn't carry newspapers. He waited. His patience was rewarded. In 1989, the greengrocer opened a shop and hired young girls to sell underwear. Nowak learned what unemployment was. However, he didn't want to learn what faith was, and even his wife had lost her enthusiasm for Sunday Mass. Once, a report about him appeared in the local newspaper, but even that didn't help him. He experienced a strange feeling that, although he was well-known in town, he had no friends in the area. When an investor appeared in the commune, uninterested in the past but only in tax breaks, Nowak found work as a warehouseman in a scrapyard. And he thought to himself that there were two things he had believed in in life: socialism and prophecy. And that faith had nothing to do with practical life.
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