Soldier

 slowly walked down the dark cream corridor of his company. He passed the desk of the non-commissioned officer on duty and headed right to the door where his commander's office was located.

"Hey, Piotrek," came a call from behind him. He started and turned. A tall, blond man with a full moon face and glasses on his nose extended his hand to him. He was a corporal. He smiled with his full face and asked ironically, "What, don't you recognize your colleagues anymore, Corporal Karowski? Or maybe you've gone so crazy in this room that you can't recognize your buddies by profession, eh?

" "No, sorry, buddy," he said, offering his hand. "I was lost in thought, believe me." Piotr smiled back.

"Okay, okay," the blond replied, "I know everything. I heard you had heart palpitations." And I've told you so many times not to stay up late at night, Pisarczyk, because it won't do you any good, but as usual, you know better, don't you?" He patted Karowski on the back in a friendly gesture, but after a moment, he turned serious.

"So what really happened to you? Smolarz said you suddenly left the office at two in the morning, pale as chalk, and started to stagger. Apparently, you were so weak that he got scared and called the emergency room." Piotr sighed and closed his eyes for a moment, then spoke quietly.

"Listen, Masa, I didn't have any heart palpitations, as you call them. It's just that fatigue made itself felt, you know those sleepless nights over a few cups of coffee. My blood pressure rose," he continued. "My heart rate increased, I felt dizzy and my hands trembled, typical symptoms of anxiety, and as you know, it's all caused by overwork. That's the whole story.

" "And you were sick with that for two weeks?" Masa raised his eyebrows.

"You know, I was on observation. Tablets, tablets, and more tablets.

" "Well, on the one hand, you had a great time, because you got some rest, and right when we were at the training ground, but I don't know..." He thought for a moment. "No, I couldn't do that, I think I'd get bored. Because how much reading can you do, for example, and what else can you do there, tell me?

" "You're absolutely right, but somehow I survived and I'm back, tight and in formation, as they say." He tapped the man on the shoulder. "And where is the company now?" he asked.

"They went to shooting, what did you miss?"

"Not at all, I'm just asking. And Tybor went with them?

" "The guys went with the boss and Łokaj, but Tybor didn't. He went to headquarters to get a monthly plan or something." Masa sniffed and adjusted his large glasses. "At least that's what he said," he added.

"You say you're on a monthly plan," he thought for a moment, "so I'm going to have to work two more nights. Well, that seems to be my fate. Well, Masa, if that's how it is, I'll go prepare myself mentally and mobilize my strength. For now," he turned and began walking towards the office, when Masa's words reached him from behind,

"You brought this fate on yourself, Pisarczyk. It was your choice to become a writer.

" "I know, I know," he muttered to himself as he opened the door.

When he closed it behind him, he leaned against it. He surveyed the room. Nothing had changed, he thought—his sanctuary remained untouched. But this haven of peace and quiet, as he always called it, now seemed strangely alien, cold and austere at once. The same desk on the left where he worked every day, the file cabinet on the right, and Tybor's desk directly in front, next to the window, over which hung heavy green curtains, saturated with cigarette smoke. There were large, dark stains on the carpet, stains he'd once labored over, stubbornly refusing to disappear. How many hours he'd spent here in solitude, a solitude he'd grown accustomed to over time. How many letters he'd read here from her, savoring every word that had helped him survive away from home, those hot, sleepless nights, burned out, and drenched in cheap wine. He couldn't forget it. He couldn't forget her rare green eyes, her flat stomach, and her hair, which always reminded him of the sand on a sun-baked beach. "I love you, my little Christmas tree," he whispered, "I love you so much." He slowly sank into the chair, leaning on the backrest with one hand like an old man. After a moment, he buried his face in his hands and cried softly. But it wasn't long before he suddenly jumped up and began rubbing his eyes. "You fool," he chided himself, "Tybor will be back soon, and you're whining like a woman. This isn't the time for this, you have to be strong. You understand, strong." He opened his desk drawer and pulled out the orders book. He flipped through the last few pages. They weren't written in his handwriting. Hmm," he grunted, "but someone was covering for him. No wonder, you can't afford to be so behind, he thought, "you have to get a grip, get a grip," he kept repeating to himself. As he put the book back in the desk drawer, a key rattled in the door; someone was trying to get in by tampering with the lock. Piotr turned abruptly, "Open!" he shouted, and at the same time, he tried the doorknob. His heart fluttered like a flag in the wind.

His commander stood in the open doorway. He was a dark-skinned man with a high forehead, black hair, and an equally dark mustache that added contrast to his even, white teeth when he smiled. He wasn't particularly tall, but he exuded a certain strength that Karowski always admired. He was a decisive man who commanded respect from everyone.

"Hey, Pisarczyk," Tybor thundered, pressing his consonants firmly, "you're finally back. And I thought I'd be dealing with this mess myself." With that, he threw some papers on his desk.

"But, Lieutenant, even if..." Karowski cut him off. "There are so many people who could replace me."

"No, buddy, there aren't any here, and I'll tell you, I'm your commander," Tybor emphasized.

"No, Lieutenant, you're probably overestimating me," Piotrek smiled.

"Shut up, Corporal, and don't question my words. I'm the commander here, and I know who's qualified and who isn't, unless you're suggesting he's mentally ill, damn him, or has cataracts, so I don't know I'm dealing with nothing but idiots in this company."

"Thank you for your honesty, Lieutenant," Karowski grinned, and Tybor looked at him and waved his hand.

"I don't mean you, man, and you know it, so don't play unnecessary games with me." With that, he threw his cap onto the window sill. "Kabaciński, drunk every other day, Larski and Olejniczak too, not to mention our boss, who's been down forty gallons. And who the hell do I have to work with here?" He panted heavily and shook his dark head in disbelief. "Here's a draft of the monthly plan for December," he continued, "and it has to be done on time. And here are the outlines, I have to have them ready in two days and deliver them to Cieluch, the damned battalion commander. Jesus, how I hate that son of a bitch." He looked heavily at Piotr and leaned his whole sad body against the desk. "You can handle it, right?

" "Sure, Lieutenant," he drawled. "Cieluch will have it on his desk in two days, don't worry."

"Everything, soldier," Tybor smiled, "that's what I wanted to hear, not some nasty whine like Warrant Officer Łokaj, that life hurts and he thinks his world is falling apart, that he's the only one with problems and the most wronged." Here he pursed his lips contemptuously. "But nothing, Pisarczyk, I have to go now." He said, glancing at his watch. "It's St. Andrew's Day today, so go have some fun. I'll give vent to my nightmares today too and probably drink myself to death. I'm not going anywhere, so I'll do it alone.

" "And how's it going with your transfer, Lieutenant? Any news yet?" Piotr asked.

"Nothing yet." Tybor replied. "But I hope it's soon. I think I'll be back where I am next year, and that should be my place. Bye," he said dryly. "And he left, closing the door behind him."

"Hello, Lieutenant," Piotr whispered to himself, and began to leaf through the papers lying on the table. But it wasn't going well, because at that moment he was thinking about him. About his commander, his officer, a man as tough as a nut, a man rarely valued among ordinary soldiers. But Karowski knew he had no friends here, in this faraway place, abandoned by God, that he couldn't talk to his company mates about anything but cigarette smuggling at the border, cheap girls giving themselves up for a bottle of wine, and the theft of better cars. That's why he respected Tybor. He respected him for the honesty he bestowed upon him, for every word, good or bad, he uttered, because he knew the man did nothing to harm his sensitive personality in the slightest. Although, in Tybor's mind, everyone had to remain tough. Tough against the system of change, and tough against the harsh life they lived. "There's no way to grab the glass, there's no way to die, there's no way to escape into a trance, but there's a way to live and endure despite all the evil that surrounds us, and to not be able to let ourselves be caught." This was Tybor's motto, the one he surrounded himself with. He himself came from the Zamość region, where he had a wife and two children, and only saw them twice a year, for the holidays and once during the leave he was entitled to. So he admired him, admired him for his perseverance in waiting for the transfer he'd been waiting for so long. "

I'll make the plan today," he muttered to himself, "and the outlines tomorrow, and that's it." And he set to work, trying not to think about anything else. No one interrupted him, so he finished it before dusk. When he finished, he leaned his aching back comfortably against the back of a chair, took a cigarette from the pack, and lit it. His thoughts wandered again. He now saw, in his mind's eye, his hometown, to which he had become so accustomed and which he had grown to love. And his mother, who had placed all her hopes in him. He was her only son, whom she loved deeply and in whom she had so much faith after the loss of her alcoholic husband. She always told all her friends: "You'll see, Piotr will achieve something, because he is exceptional and has such great ambitions." She was a simple housewife, a woman who had experienced life from the other, darker side. The side of the social fringes in which her husband moved. The constant brawls and drinking bouts he provoked at home created a great insecurity and a gulf in her relationship with men, so much so that she never reconnected with anyone. She poured all her love into her son, wanting to raise him as best she could and protect him from life's hardships, sheltering him in a bubble. She didn't know she had created a very sensitive and secretive man, fleeing from the harsh challenges of life.

When he met Ania, she was only 17. He had just graduated from high school, so there wasn't much of an age difference between them. When he first brought her home, his mother told him to leave her alone. Because a young girl who indulges in late-night trysts wasn't worth much. Piotr was offended by her and never came home with Ania again. They met at her place. They went to the park and the cinema and pondered their future together. It was Piotr's first and only love. "A love that outlasts all creation, a love that wallows in dreams, in the scent of flowers, and in the incredible trembling of souls," as he wrote in poems he never shared with anyone but her. He once confessed to his friend Tomek, who was his only friend, in the summer, when they were lying by the lake together

on a hot night, gazing at the stars, that she was the single most beautiful star among the entire constellation, the only one worthy of the fall of the heavens. Thomas, a philosopher shunned by everyone except Peter and not particularly knowledgeable about literary quotations, retorted that he should never compare such mindless beings to something as beautiful as the universe. This was shortly before Peter's military service. Peter, offended by him, never spoke to him again.

He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray and sat for a while, staring at a point on the wall. After a moment, he jumped up from his chair and pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pants pocket. He stared at it for a moment, then unfolded it and began to read.

"Dear Piotr. This letter I'm sending you won't be long, but you can be sure it's filled with warmth and friendship. We haven't seen each other very often lately, and it's obvious why. You're in a place where they have power over you and you can't escape until they give you permission. I understand that. But for the past few months (I didn't tell you this when you were at the November 1st party), I've been feeling very lonely. I know your sensitivity, and that's why I didn't write before, because I was worried about you. But now I've thought everything through and decided to write. I've been with someone else since July, I've fallen in love, and everything has somehow gotten so confusing that I don't know... I'd like to wish you happiness, and don't worry, we'll stay friends if you want. Please don't write to me anymore, because I won't read these letters anymore. Your friend, Ania."

Karowski didn't go through the pass office as required by regulations, but instead headed about five hundred meters to the left, to a gate in the fence housing the buildings of the former USSR unit, which, having been looted, were now deserted. The only problem for the ordinary soldiers was the sentry who guarded this passage, but not for him, as he passed through there many times a week, delivering briefings and plans to the cadre. Everyone on guard duty knew him, and he knew them. Often, they didn't ask any questions, but with a smile, opened the gate, known as the Russian Gate, for him. The place he found himself in was nothing more than a tiny military town housing about three thousand soldiers of various professions, including civilians. Forests stretched as far as the eye could see, and if it weren't for the unsightly military barracks, from which hundreds of gloomy windows peered out, it would have been truly beautiful. It was late autumn when he walked through an avenue of tall trees, their now leafless branches swaying in the wind and casting eerie shadows in the light of the now burning lanterns on the road strewn with rotten leaves. The branches rubbed against each other, emitting ominous murmurs, and he, listening to it all, continued to walk with a heavy gait, lost in thought, his head buried in the collar of his army camouflage jacket. Suddenly, he jerked awake from his lethargy as a cigarette, practically burnt by the wind, burned his lips. He spat on the ground and cursed softly. When he stepped outside the walls of the unit, he headed for a shop, intending to buy some alcohol. The desire for a drink had been with him for a long time; he felt the need to relax and forget, if only for a moment, the sorrows that plagued him, until the gray and dreary day woke him again.

He entered the shop and his attention was caught by a poster hanging on the door: November 29, 1993. St. Andrew's Day party in Sulęcinek, band playing... "I wonder what she's doing," he thought. "Maybe she's going somewhere, she's definitely going, she'll probably have a good time, she'll probably...

" "Are you buying something?" the voice of a young woman, she couldn't have been older than thirty, interrupted him from his reverie. "And she was pretty. She had green eyes, and Piotr noticed it immediately.

"Excuse me, I've been reading too much." He nodded, indicating the poster hanging on the wall. "Please...

" "A handsome soldier like you," the woman interrupted. "It's no wonder he's lost in thought. He's probably wondering who to go to the party with, because he's probably met more than one girl here." She smiled coquettishly as she spoke.

"No, ma'am," he said, looking at her. "I was just thinking that it would be better if I didn't go to any party at all, but met you, and without saying a word, just stared into your incredibly green eyes."

"Why do you like them so much?" she asked, still smiling.

"No, they just remind me of someone who ended too soon."

"Are you taking anything, my friend, or are you just going to stand here until morning and talk about how much your heart aches?"

Piotr turned slowly and only now noticed the man behind him, staring at him with expressionless eyes.

"Half a liter of Wyborowa and a pack of unfiltered cigarettes. That's all," he added.

"Sir, please." The girl turned to hand over the goods.

He looked once more at the stranger standing next to him, whose breath was saturated with alcohol and nicotine, which he could now smell on himself. He looked sloppy, his clothes so dirty they shone as if smeared with grease. But the smile on his face was devoid of any mockery.

"Excuse me, ma'am," he suddenly said to the saleswoman. "Ma'am, I'll give you another half liter.

" "It'll be such fun," she smiled, her face turning pink.

"No, I'll drink one half with this gentleman, and I'll take the other half to some sad party." Saying this, he looked sternly at the man standing next to him.

"Do you want to fight?" the stranger asked.

"No, I want to have a drink with you.

" "Let's go," he croaked.

"Let's go.

" "Come on in, maybe we can talk," the girl called after him.

"Yes, maybe I'll come in," Piotr replied, but this time to himself, so she couldn't hear him.

When they stepped outside, the darkness seemed to thicken. He walked first, and the sad-faced man followed, wiping his nose on the lapels of his coat. The wind ruffled the now bare treetops and set the withered leaves in motion, making vague pirouettes. They swirled around aimlessly.

"Where are we going?" the stranger asked.

"Nowhere." Karowski replied with a shrug. "Wherever you want.

" "You know, I don't have to go with you, and I don't have to drink with you either.

" "I know you don't have to, but you can. I know a place where we can have a drink in peace. At least there's no wind," he added.

"Lead the way," the man rasped.

And they walked on, two tall, hunched figures. Their silhouettes blended into the blackness of the evening and the silence, broken only by the sound of their footsteps on the gravel. Huddled in the collars of their jackets, they looked like mourners following a funeral procession, not saying a word to each other the entire way. When they reached their destination, the stranger spoke first:

"I know this place." He nodded toward a red brick building, from which two black holes in the wall peered out, where windows had probably once been.

"Yeah, it's a good spot, almost like a shelter." Piotr grabbed the edge of the windowsill and jumped in. He offered the man his hand, and a moment later they were sitting on scattered bricks. It was dim inside, thanks to a nearby street lamp. The smell wasn't very pleasant, and bottles of cheap liquor were scattered everywhere. The stranger suddenly stood up and picked up a piece of Styrofoam.

"Here, put it under your butt so you don't get hit," he smiled at him.

"Thanks, we'll fit together. Sit down.

" "No, I'll stand, I've been sitting here long enough," the stranger spat on the ground. "

Drink." Karowski took out the vodka and handed it to the man.

"Drink first.

" "It's my money, so drink," he slapped the man on the thigh with a laugh. The man tilted it and handed it back to him. He felt his throat burn, then his stomach, and suddenly it felt warmer.

"Shall we smoke?" The stranger pulled out his cigarettes. Piotr saw the man's face in the matchlight. Once it must have been intelligent and beautiful, he thought, but now it resembled an empty field. The deep lines stretching from his nose to his chin and the dark bags under his eyes were a clear sign of great alcohol exhaustion, and the colorless pupils, set in sunken sockets, devoid of warmth, further emphasized the man's hopelessness. Everything that had once been pain and suffering flowed across his face.

"What's your name, stranger?" he asked, and he looked at him.

"What's my name, what's your name, who cares?" he replied, exhaling clouds of smoke and looking into the darkness.

"I care.

" "Yes? And why?

" "I like to know who I'm drinking with." Karowski looked up at him, and the stranger smiled

. "Stefan. My name is Stefan.

" "Piotr." They shook hands.

"So tell me, Piotr, what hurts you so much, huh?"

"Oh, that's just it.

" "Love isn't some stupid thing, it can kill you. Or at best, drive you mad.

" "What do you know about it?

" "Me? Allow me, my young friend, to ask you. What do you know about it?" He looked at Piotr firmly, and for a moment they stared at each other.

"Let's have a drink," Piotr said. "Let everyone forget, let everyone forget." With that, he raised the bottle to his lips.

"You know what's best about all this?" Stefan asked. "The best thing about all this is that they'll all forget. Only you'll never forget, and that's the irony. You'll never be able to forget, and you'll never sleep again without a full bottle. And that's how it's going to stay," he laughed and took a long swig.

"You know, you must be drunk," Piotrek gasped, "and that's why you say that."

"Yes, you're certainly right, but tomorrow I'll wake up and it'll be reality, and I won't think any differently, and that's what madness is. But it doesn't have to happen to you, you're young after all. You'll wait until this shit you're stuck in is over, go back to the city, to your people, and start.

" "Start what?" Piotrek asked, lighting a new cigarette.

"Life," Stefan said calmly, "what else.

" "Life?" He looked into the darkness and pondered for a moment. "Life, you say? It's not life without her. My commander would definitely cope. He's tough and has his principles. An officer, an officer of the fucking Polish army." He bowed his neck and began to nod for a moment.

"Just because he's an officer doesn't say anything about his character." Stefan placed his hand on the other man's shoulder. "But matters of the heart," he added and smiled.

"But you don't know shit about that." Piotr slapped his hand away in anger.

"I know, because I was an officer myself once." He looked at him with dead eyes, but for a moment it seemed as if something had lit up in his dead pupils, and Piotr looked into them, piercing the darkness.

"I was an air force major, if you like," he continued, "but that was a long time ago, but sometimes it seems like yesterday." He fell into thought as he spoke. And again, for a while, they smoked in silence, each looking in his direction. Only their faces were visible occasionally in the glow of their burning cigarettes. One young and beautiful, the other worn and crumpled, tired of life, but not ugly, just worn.

"Tell me about it," whispered Piotrek.

"There was an incident once." He stared at the gray windows of the ruined walls. "An incident that disrupted my life and degraded it. No, that's not how I see it now, that I messed everything up." He waved his hand. "It was I who degraded myself.

" "What incident?" Piotrek asked, intrigued.

"I used to go to a bar run by a married couple. But he didn't respect her, always insulting and humiliating her, he was nervous. And I'm calm by nature, and on the contrary, I've always liked women. I loved them. I had a wife myself, she was beautiful as a summer morning, and I trusted her. Yes, I trusted her like no one else. And one time I went there after work, as usual, for a pint, and I saw him ripping her and swearing at her, but I didn't say anything, because why would he? It's none of my business. But after a few drinks, when I was about to leave, I saw that bastard punch her in the face. And then I couldn't take it anymore. I went up to him and told him, 'You're a beast and a piece of shit, a common boor, but you should try me.' But that son of a bitch wasn't going to do it, so I went behind the bar and punched him twice in the face, breaking his jaw in two places." They came and took me away.” He took a drag on his cigarette and looked into the void again, his face so tense that his jaw muscles trembled beneath his dark skin.

"So what happened next?" Piotrek asked impatiently.

"Some time later, I went back there and that bastard did the same thing, and I did it again, when his jaw was still in wires and his scar hadn't healed. Back when his jaw was still in wires. They took him to the hospital, and I was demoted. My wife couldn't accept it for a long time, and one day, when I returned from a business trip, she was gone. And nothing was there, they even unscrewed the wall sockets.

" "They?" Piotr raised his eyebrows.

"She found someone.

" "You stood up for women, didn't you?

" "They want decent husbands, not drunks and troublemakers," he sniffed. "And when they demoted me," he continued, "there wasn't the money we used to have, and the bad people didn't let us live. Besides, who knows," he waved his hand, "maybe she already had someone else. But I know they laughed at her, that's what she said later." I only met her a few times in court, and then I heard nothing more about her.

"I understand," Piotr muttered. "Instead of helping you, she turned away." He drank the rest of the vodka and threw it back into the darkness, the glass clinking.

"I just want to tell you this," Stefan squeezed his arm, "that there are no equal characters, thoughts, or words in this world. The strong will always be strong, and the weak weak. Perhaps you can change your style, your character, but I don't believe you can change your personality. A person will always remain themselves until the end of their days, no matter what cloak they wear or how people perceive them, the strong will always be strong, and the weak will remain weak. And that's just how it is. So if you want, follow your commander's example, but don't try to imitate him, because one day you might lose yourself. Many things can be overcome by willpower, because to some extent, every person has it; it just depends on whether you want it or not." Do you want this because we can all afford it?

"And you?" Piotr asked, staring into his now burning eyes.

"Me?" The man smiled. "Well, I didn't want it, and I don't want it, and it'll stay that way. And don't ask me anything more, because I won't tell you anything. I've talked enough today. Come on, let's go now," he turned the collar of his coat higher, "I'll go my way, you go yours. If I could give you any advice, that girl from the shop wanted to talk to you again, I wouldn't hesitate if I were you." With that, he climbed onto the window and disappeared behind the wall.

For a while he could still hear the man's footsteps as he walked away, and in his mind he could still see his crumpled and worn face, the torment etched on it, and his burning eyes. He could still smell him, or maybe not his smell, but the smell of that room, dirty and dark, now as cold as a jail cell. He suddenly felt uneasy, and tears welled up in his eyes. He wanted to hold them back, but he couldn't; they flowed slowly but steadily, like drops of melting icicles in the spring thaw. He put his hand in his pants pocket and began searching, first slowly, then desperately, like someone who has just lost a lottery ticket, through all the pockets until he found it. He pulled out the already crumpled envelope, crumpled it in his hands, and threw it furiously to the ground. He was about to leave when he suddenly crouched down and lit the paper. He watched it burn for a while, then it smoldered again, and when the paper reached the darkness, he kicked the ash and left.

As he approached the company building, the din of drunken company could already be heard in the distance. Some stood in front of the entrance, smoking cigarettes. Their laughter now reminded him of the scrape of a knife on an empty plate. It stung his ears, sending shivers down his spine. He passed them, and they called out, "Oh, the writer's back! Hey, little writer! How have you grown up yet? How's your heart stopping?" They laughed again, but he just walked along, nodding to them without saying a word. Slowly climbing the building's stairs, he disappeared inside.

A corporal stood in the corridor, wearing a duty NCO badge. When he saw Karowski, he grinned.

"Hey, hey, Piciu, how's it going? Masa just told me you're back.

" "Hey, Smolarz," he offered his hand. "Yes, I'm back, but I'm leaving soon. I'm just going to change into my civilian clothes and get out of this brothel." I think I have one there who'd like to see me.

"Ooooh – I envy you. Pretty?" He became interested.

"I'll just tell you, you won't find a prettier one here," he said in a dispassionate tone.

"And I have to stand here like a sheep and keep an eye on this rabble.

" "I didn't put you on this duty today, not this time, man.

" "I know, I don't blame you.

" "Easy for now?" Karowski asked.

"For now, but just wait until this gang gets back from the party, then there'll be the tango

." I hope I don't have to see that.

"Ugh," he waved his hand, "you're welcome to lock yourself in the office and piss, you'll crash until morning on your backside and you won't even know a thing, and..." He was about to say something when suddenly a drunk soldier in an open camouflage jacket burst through the front door, shouting at the top of his lungs, "Domaaaaaaal, Domaaaaaaaaal, get the fuck out!" and stood in the middle of the corridor, swaying from side to side.

"Shut up, Thaler," Smolarz growled at him.

"Shut up," he muttered drunkenly, "I'm paying off my debts, damn it, his mother." "Domaaaaaaal," he howled.

"Don't come out." "That idiot drank some brutal shit to Domal a few days ago." Smolarz chuckled. "They argued all day. Domal said if he didn't pay him back, he'd beat the shit out of him.

" "Domaaaaaal.

" "Shut up, damn it," Smolarz was angry, "because you'll get me fired."

Suddenly, another delinquent emerged from one of the rooms, a short boy with devilish eyes, red from drinking too much. He staggered over to Thaler.

"Got it?" he muttered.

"Got it.

" "Give it to me then," he extended his hand.

"Here." He took out a vial and offered it. The man was about to take it when Thaler suddenly withdrew his hand and mumbled.

"You didn't have it all, brother." He tipped the bottle to his lips, took a long swig, and belched loudly. "Now we're even." The man glanced at the bottle with one eye. He stared at the bottle for a moment, then nodded, panting.

"Yes, that's fine, now we're even." Embracing each other, they moved toward the hall, belting out the lyrics of the song: "When I was leaving for the army in the spring, you said goodbye to me, sad and angry, promising you'd wait, that a year and a half is a short time. When the train wheels started moving, your figure disappeared into the fog, and that's how I was left with the image of the girl and the thought that you still love me." The next words, already indistinct, disappeared with them behind the slamming door.

"So what do you say?" Smolarz asked, grinning.

"That was good," Piotr smiled, "but everything is still ahead of you, my love." He patted the other man on the shoulder. "Nothing, have fun, I'm going to change."

"Well, for now," Smolarz muttered.

He entered the office, pulled a bottle of vodka from his jacket, and set it on the table. He turned on the radio, which was blaring disco music: "Jambo, jambo, jambo," some artist was shouting. He tuned to a different frequency: "In the interwar period, from 1920 to 1932, a newspaper called "Rzeczpospolita" was published, associated with the right-wing Christian National Party. Its co-owner was Ignacy Paderewski, later Wojciech Korfanty, and the editor-in-chief..." "Bullshit," he cursed and turned off the receiver. He poured himself a generous portion into a glass and drank it in one gulp. The vodka burned his throat until his eyes bulged—"damn," he croaked and coughed. He lit a cigarette, took a drag, and put it back in the ashtray. He began to change, putting on a leather jacket, jeans, and ankle-high boots. He poured himself another glass and was about to drink when there was a knock on the door, and then someone began to jiggle the doorknob.

"Writer," a voice said, "writer, open up, I know you're there.

" "What?" he shouted angrily.

"Open up, I have something for you."

"Up your ass," he replied, walking to the door and opening it. A tall man stepped inside. His head was shaved at the back and sides, and his long, non-regulation bangs were combed back.

"What do you want, Kabat?" Piotr asked angrily, as it was already a bit late. "I'm leaving and in a hurry, so be brief.

" "What are you doing, I have something for you, come on.

" "Just wait, I'll get something." He put the bottle in his jacket pocket and they left.

"Come in," Kabat said, opening the door to one of the company rooms.

"What?

" "Come in, come in." He gently pushed Piotr inside, who entered and looked around the room. Three privates, whom he obviously knew, were sitting on one of the beds. On the cabinet they had placed in the middle, between the beds stood glasses and a few bottles of wine, half-empty. Sneaky smiles loomed on their faces, now distorted by alcohol. They glanced across the room. Karowski followed their gaze. Someone was lying on the bed. He walked closer and saw a girl lying naked, drunk. She had black hair and a pretty face. Her body was dark-skinned, and her slender legs were now spread. Her skin was glistening in places. At first, he thought it was sweat, but as he got closer, he realized it wasn't sweat, but their semen. It was everywhere: on her face, on her breasts, in her hair, and on her stomach, dripping from her mouth onto the pillow, creating a wet stain. And her crotch was red and swollen.

"So?" Kabat asked. "Relieve yourself. Don't be ashamed, we're in a mess, aren't we?" His laughter was filling Piotr with disgust at that moment. "Come on, clerk," he patted him on the back. "Take off your pants and get to work, because I think we've had enough for today."

"And what do you want to do with her afterward?" he asked calmly.

"She'll recover a bit and then she'll be gone – we're not going to feed her – unless Mer wants to, then he'll do it again, right, Mer?" He laughed again, and Piotr felt disgusted with him again.

"I have a better idea," he said, and, unable to look any longer, he looked away from the girl. "I'll buy her from you.

" "What?" Kabat burst into a venomous laugh, the three others joining in. "Why do you want to buy her when you can do it here for free?"

"I'd like to do it myself, you know, I don't like people watching.

" "How much are you paying for this whore?" Mer, a boy with red hair and an ugly, freckled face, asked cheekily. "

And how much did you get her for?" he asked.

"She drank about two bottles of wine," Kabat drawled.

"I'll give you this," he pulled out a bottle of vodka and set it on the table.

"That's not the whole bottle," Mer stated.

"We had to snort it, brother." Kabat spread his hands.

- So what, you'll be bidding for some whore - Karowski got angry.

"The writer's right," suddenly a fat man in nothing but a sweaty shirt spoke up from the side. They looked at him. "The writer's right," he repeated. "Let him have the vodka, and the wine too, and let him take it." They all nodded in agreement.

"Take that rag, it's yours," Kabat extended his hand.

"Okay, I'll go get Smolarz, he'll help me." He left and quietly closed the door behind him.

"Son of a bitch," he hissed, and grabbed the corporal by the coattails.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?

" "Did you know?" Piotr asked.

"I knew, but what could I do?" He grabbed his hands, trying to rip them off his clothes, but the man was stronger. "Let go, let go." Karowski let go, and he started to straighten himself.

"Do you know what will happen when those others come back?" He looked the man in the eye.

"The girl will be poor, what do I care about her?" he shrugged.

"Oh, the girl will be poor," he nodded. "You damn idiot, have you thought about yourself? Come on, have you thought about yourself for even a second in that stupid little head of yours?

" "What's it to me?"

"No, no," Karowski nodded in disbelief. "You know what, Tybor was right, you're a bunch of fucking idiots. Think about it, if a fight breaks out here and you have to call the guardhouse because you can't handle it yourself, and they find her, how are you going to explain it, huh? Tell me, how?" The man paled, the blood draining from his face at that moment, and he began nervously rubbing his nose.

"So what should I do? " "

Come on," he tugged at the man and pulled him along. "I've taken care of everything," he added.

They wrapped her in a blanket just as she lay and carried her out of the room, taking her personal belongings, which she practically didn't have much of. They laughed and whistled, shouting, "Here, Piszor, don't scratch yours; and if you have any gum, share it with your friend, don't be a Jew." They carried her into the office and laid her on the mattress. Piotr uncovered her, and Smolarz whistled in a long, drawn-out whistle. Karowski looked at him with an iron gaze and drawled.

"Bring me a bucket of water, only warm," the man stood there, still staring, unable to tear his eyes away from her naked body. "I said warm water," he repeated.

When Smolarz left, Piotr pulled a bottle of wine from the desk and tipped it to his lips. He drank for a long time, then put the bottle down, and only then did he realize he was already drunk and sat down, all sorts of thoughts racing through his mind. He looked at her face and saw Ania, his mother, Stefan, and Tybor. For a moment, he glimpsed the face of the shop assistant, so he closed his eyes and remained there for what seemed like an eternity, though it only lasted a few minutes before Smolarz returned.

"Hey, Captain," he shook Piotr, "Water.

" "Oh yes, come help me.

" "And what if the officer comes for inspection?" he asked, "someone has to be at the desk.

" "What time is it?"

"Ten past eleven," Smolarz glanced at his watch.

"She's open until 10 p.m.," he muttered to himself.

"What?

" "No, nothing to myself. Wake the duty officer and tell him to stand.

" "Come on, he's taking over at twelve.

" "Wake him up, damn it, he's young, and anyway, do whatever you want, now get the hell out of here.

" "Piotruś?

" "Yeah?

" "Thanks," Smolarz said.

Piotrek looked at him with a slightly clouded look and calmly drawled,

"I didn't do it for you," he said, looking at the girl. "I did it for her.

And you know what, I bought her for half a liter of vodka from those scoundrels, even though they're not even worth that.

" "Thank you anyway.

" "But you still have a problem.

" "Why?"

"I'm going out and I don't know what time I'll be back, and when she wakes up from this lethargy and sees it's locked, she'll start banging on the door and who knows what else, so you'll have to stay awake until I get back. Do you understand?

" "Yes, you're right, I'll stay awake," he said and left.

He dipped a cloth into the bucket. The water was warm; first, he wiped his sweaty forehead and face with it, like a doctor about to perform a procedure, then dipped it again and gently wrung it out. He washed it slowly, his whole body, from his feet, over his thighs and stomach, his breasts, and finally his face. He dipped the cloth in the water every now and then, washing again, and sweat dripped from his forehead, but he no longer felt it, nor did he feel the tears that streamed down his cheeks, dripping onto her naked, warm body and mingling with the water that washed away the sin, the filth, and the degradation that clung to him, to this young body now stripped of all the values ​​of this damned world that existed here on this earth now forgotten by God. Where the days were always the same and blended into one another, and time stood still, and there was no solace in anything. There was no joy, only eternal longing and sadness, regret and eternal fear that lasted for centuries. And the sun that was no longer sun, and the earth that was no longer earth; the dead earth, the barren wasteland, and the wind. The wind that drove her mad with each day, with each sleepless night, and the silence that was no longer silence but fear, the dread of the unknown. These terrible thoughts were forming in his mind at that moment, growing stronger until he felt a pain in his temples. So he shook his head a few times, like a boxer after a punch, and stood up. He wiped the tears from his face, threw the cloth into the bucket, and wrapped the girl tightly in a blanket. He hung her clothes on the arm of the chair and left, leaving the light on.

"Here's the key," he tossed to Smolarz, who caught it. "The light's on so she doesn't get scared. Go in there every now and then. You don't have to now; I suspect she'll sleep for a few more hours. If anyone asks you why the light's on in the office, tell them I forgot to turn it off. If those bastards"—he pointed to the door of the room—"ask where she and I are, you'll say the whore sobered up and went somewhere with me. Do you understand, or do I have to draw it for you?" He scoffed.

"I understand." He nodded.

"Oh, one more thing," he stopped and rubbed his forehead with his hand. "If the girl wakes up and wants to go, you'll wake the young man and escort her to the Russian gate. Yes, that would be all." He pondered. "And don't let any silly thoughts cross your mind, or I'll beat you like a dog. Got it?

" "Yes, Captain, I see you've thought of everything." Smolarz grinned.

"No, you're wrong," he looked at the other blankly. "It's just logical." He turned and left the company.