RED RIBBON1

A fine, piercingly cold cabbage soup was lashing the ground from the north. It was breaking free from the clouds, heavy as tar, drifting so low it seemed they might catch the church tower visible from here. Old Fornol only needed a few powerful shovel strokes to reach the required depth. Then all he had to do was scoop out the loosened sand with a shovel, throw it high above his head, and the hardest work would be over. He roughly divided the work into hard, unpleasant and tiring, requiring a lot of energy, and "fun," meaning mostly finishing touches that didn't require much energy. Filling the grave after a funeral was no longer considered hard work.

He was no longer the youngest; he often thought about giving it all up, spending cold mornings in bed or in an armchair, covered with a blanket, with a book or a crossword puzzle in hand.

But he couldn't quite cope with the prospect of physical inactivity. And besides, it was as if he were betraying all the recently deceased and those who would soon join them by refusing them his final service. After all, he, like a parish priest rushing to the dying with oils and holy water, was one of those with whom the deceased conducts his final business on earth. No, despite rheumatism, gout, and a few other physical ailments, he couldn't hand over his shovel to other, younger hands. It's true that for quite some time now, he had always found someone to help, but if the grave digger was ever discussed in any circle, it was only by his name. "I guess I'll keep digging until one day I can't climb out, and then you'll just bury me in my own grave," he often prophesied at the inn after a few pints.

This morning, the damp and cold were particularly bothersome. His arms and back ached, he felt water seeping into his wellies, and his feet were starting to go numb. He cursed sharply, but quickly regained his composure and made the sign of the cross twice. He thanked God that his cemetery was nothing but yellow sand covered with a thin layer of black earth. He rarely touched a round stone with his shovel. He visited his son in Westphalia, Germany, and often stopped during walks at the cemetery fence in the town where he lived and observed the gravediggers at work. They rarely used shovels; a small, maneuverable excavator always weaved between the graves. They worked in very difficult and rocky terrain. He couldn't imagine how graves were dug there before the invention of the excavator.

But he, too, had exhausted himself mercilessly yesterday with the grave he was currently working on. They had dug it right up to the fence, on the side of the grove; thick pine roots entwined the chosen spot, and they had—he couldn't remember the last time he'd done this—had had to use an axe to dig the top layer.

The two of them started yesterday. Skowronek, much younger than him, strong as a horse and with an even stronger head, a companion for a mug, did the hard work for him. He promised to come today to help set up the platform around the grave, and in fact, he should be here already. Fornol was just "playing in the sand," as he said. He wasn't in a hurry—the funeral wasn't until tomorrow; he liked to have plenty of time.

He took a packet of "popular" cigarettes from the side pocket of his denim jacket, lit one, and

inhaled the blue smoke with great delight. He didn't have to worry about any remnants of previous burials—according to the cemetery records and plans, no one had ever been buried here before. He often found the remains of human skeletons, rotten boards, and rusty coffin fittings while digging in—again, as he put it—the "populated" part of the cemetery. He always collected them very carefully and placed them in a hole dug at the bottom of the grave, covering them with sand.

This time, he wasn't expecting any—as he called it—"archaeology."

The last shovelfuls of sand were outside, and Fornol began leveling the lower walls of the grave with a spade, stamping the loose sand on the bottom. The right side was ready; the left only required a few adjustments at the very bottom. The old man was leveling the bottom of the wall with his spade when suddenly an oblong stone emerged, like a raisin from a cake. He was about to stomp it into the ground, but its unusual shape intrigued him. He bent down and, before even picking it up, noticed that it wasn't stone, but human bone. "But no one's been buried here before," he thought immediately.

In his time, as far back as he could remember, there had never been

any graves in this stretch of cemetery by the fence. There had been no need for such a thing. The cemetery was large, and although it served

three villages, no one had ever been buried this far. Only now had the number

of graves increased enough that it was time for this section to be explored. Fornol pulled the shovel again and immediately encountered resistance. Human bones were nothing special to him, but now a slight shiver ran through him: they shouldn't be here! He put down the shovel and climbed up the ladder. In the tool bag next to the bicycle leaning against the fence, he found a mason's trowel and a large, rusty screwdriver; with these tools he always searched for human remains when he suspected they would be found while digging at the prescribed depth. He hated breaking preserved bones with a shovel or spade. "No one deserved to have their neck broken with a shovel again after so many years of death," he would say when asked about the purpose of these tools.

The rain had stopped, but a thick dampness settled over the ground. Fornol took off his waterproof jacket and hung it on his bike. He felt hot, but he couldn't tell if it was from throwing sand or from his discovery. Back in the grave, he began to use his trowel to scrape sand from above the spot where the spade had clanged earlier. After just a few movements, he recognized that the area was covered by a 5-cm-thick stone slab, placed almost parallel to the wall of the grave he was digging. Fornol rose from his knees and glanced around the sandy walls, but finding no details explaining the origin of his discovery, he leaned over the slab again, scraping away the sand. The deeper he dug his trowel into the grave wall, the greater the danger of the sandy overhang collapsing. He stood up again and began chipping away at the wall with his shovel.

The sounds of activity could be heard above. A metallic sound told him someone was leaning their bicycle against one of the gravestones in the next row.

Skowronek stopped above the hole.

"Good," he said, "I couldn't get any sooner because the old lady told me to clean the rabbit hutches. They hadn't been cleaned all winter and..."

Fornol interrupted him, pointing with his other hand toward the bottom of the grave.

"What's wrong?

" "Get in and see for yourself."

After a moment, Skowronek was carefully examining the slab.

"So, how did you find it?

" "What about you? Do you think I dragged it in here? There are bones under the slab; I've already dug one out, right here." He handed him a damp, sandy object.

"Well, a bone.

" "Bone, bone! I'm telling you! But look where I found it!" the old man pointed with his boot at the spot under the slab.

"You said they'd never buried anyone here before.

" "I thought so until today. Besides, the priest says so too," the old man said, clearly agitated.

For a few moments, they both stood there, helpless and astonished, unable to find even the most fantastic—yet somehow acceptable—explanation for what they were seeing.

"And what do we do?" Skowronek finally interrupted. He lit a cigarette and put his foot on the ladder rung, resting his elbow on his knee.

"Nothing," Fornol replied. "We'll just fall asleep and be done with it. No one will notice there's anything in the wall."

Another moment of silence, when suddenly Skowronek began to quickly run his hand across his chin, which was almost always a sign that he disagreed with something or had something figured out.

"Well, yes, but if we ever dig next door, we'll step on it again. Wouldn't it be better to pull it out now, put the bones in a hole, bury them in this grave and be done with it? The funeral isn't until tomorrow, we have time."

He was right. Fornol admitted to himself that Skowronek, when sober, thought logically. However, he didn't immediately agree with his assessment. He didn't want to question his own authority as an experienced grave digger. He wore various expressions to convince his friend that he was considering other possibilities. But there were none. Skowronek was simply right.

"Okay," he finally agreed, "we'll pull the slab out of the wall and place it on the bottom of the grave. It will be covered with sand; nothing will be visible."

It turned out that the slab was cracked diagonally in about half. This made it easier to lift it and slide it out of the exposed niche without dragging it across the ground, which would inevitably have destroyed any objects lying beneath it. After moving both halves, the grave diggers were presented with a surprising sight: a curled-up human skeleton, well-preserved, lying on its side, with its arms twisted back and its head pointing downwards. The old man had placed the shinbone he had found earlier in its anatomically proper place and leaned against the opposite wall of the grave.

"It looks like it's been in the ground for a while, almost all the bones are in place, in good condition." Fornol leaned over the find.

"But how long?" Skowronek spread his arms. "What, blind? Roots thicker than arms, and the earth never touched with a shovel." He waved his right hand in a circle. "But no! Stop!" He stood next to Fornol and began to examine the wall very carefully. "No, no. Here and here, see?" He traced a zigzag pattern with his finger along the wall, following lines only visible to him. "Someone's already been digging here! Surely it must have been dug, because how would these bones have ended up here?"

Now Fornol, too, noticed differences in the color of the sand in the indicated places, barely perceptible to his old eye.

Because in reality, even if it seems, as here, that the sand is structurally uniform and the same color, a trained eye will always detect layers of varying thickness and, even very slight, discoloration. If you dig a hole in the ground and then fill it back in, a trace will remain forever. You can never recreate the layers as they were before. For a grave digger, that's commonplace. Fornol didn't notice this because he assumed it was virgin ground, untrodden by a shovel, and that suggestion meant he wasn't looking closely enough at the ground. And he didn't put on his glasses. He was ashamed that it had escaped his notice.

"I'm going to the priest; mass is ending soon. We have to show him this; maybe he'll understand what I mean." Fornol emerged from the surface. "Oh, and don't run off for a beer, I'll be back soon.

" "But slowly, wait," Skowronek seemed to remember something and also emerged from the hole. "You'll go to the priest, and what?" Will you tell him we found a skeleton? That's normal. Bones will always be dug up in cemeteries.

"But not like these! I'm telling you, there shouldn't be a skeleton here, and certainly not one lying like this! I've dug up all sorts of things before, but I've never seen anything like this. Look again at how this poor man is lying! And on top of that, that damn slab! No, Paweł, we can't leave it like this." Fornol began shifting from foot to foot, spinning around, putting his hands in and out of his pockets.

"Calm down, Karlik," Skowronek took the initiative. "Let's think it over. You call the priest, he'll look at all this, and what do you think he'll do? I'll tell you: he'll call the police. If he sees that guy down here with his hands twisted behind his back, he won't hesitate for a second, I guarantee it. Some scumbags will be here soon. There'll be a fuss, people will flock to him, a sensation throughout the county." Those pricks from the newspaper will surely show up soon, take our pictures, talk nonsense, and that's it for our peace of mind. They'll drag us around to the offices and God knows where else. Do you want that? Because I don't! And the first thing they'll tell us to do is dig a new grave, because of course they'll seal this one off. We'll be digging until midnight tonight! I can't even dream of it! If you want, go ahead, but don't tell anyone I was here.

Fornol hadn't considered that this might unfold the way Skowronek saw it. But he had to admit he was right again: it could happen. Then there really would be the end of the peace he loved so much, no more beer at work. They'll be looking at them as if they personally had something to do with it.

"Fucking hell," he pulled two cans of Tyskie from his bag and handed one to Skowronek, "you're right, if this blows up, it's over. It doesn't matter to the guy downstairs. We'll only hurt ourselves."

Skowronek took small sips with obvious delight. He rarely managed to convince

Fornol of his point of view. The old man could be stubborn, but besides, he knew a lot, read a lot, did crossword puzzles, and had traveled the world quite a bit in recent years. Every year he went away for a few weeks to visit his son in Germany, and together they had seen a bit of Europe. Today, Skowronek had managed to show the old man for the second time that he too could think, that he had imagination, and that his opinion should always be respected. He was enjoying Tyskie like never before.

"Karol, you see those roots thicker than your arm. No one can tell me those trees have only been here ten years.

" "No, those pines are much older than me," the old man agreed.

"Exactly, so that poor guy down there has been lying here for at least seventy years.

" "At least.

" "What good will the police, the priest, and all that activity do him? He's been lying here for so many years, so let him lie there. I'd like to know how he got here, too, but we can't help him now."

Fornol nodded and took a long swig from his can. He took out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to his companion. A pale sun appeared in the sky, barely visible through the clouds.

"We'll gather the bones and bury them under the slab in this grave, like we always do, right?" Skowronek made the final decision, even though he wasn't in charge. "Nobody cares what we dug up."

Fornol didn't answer immediately, as if he was still pondering something.

"Okay," he finally nodded, "but then we'll have to plug up this hole in the wall somehow; we can't leave it like this.

" "We'll do it. You know, Karol, what's stuck in my head the most is that slab. Why would it be there? I've never heard of anything like it?" Skowronek searched his memory for any points that would help him deal with this problem. He found nothing. "I have an idea, what would you say if we photographed it, just in case?"

"But why?

" "Well, you never know. And at least as a souvenir of

unearthing something like this. We won't show it to anyone, God forbid, but just for us. What do you think?"

"Uh, I don't care. Take pictures, but hurry up, or someone might trip over us. The weather's improving; someone might be here any minute.

" "Just a moment, I'll be back soon."

Skowronek quickly steered his bike to the main porch. A moment later, he was racing down the main street toward the village.

Fornol approached the dug hole. The slab halves lying at the bottom were beginning to dry. He examined them closely. He also couldn't fathom the purpose of that stone.

It seems Skowronek was right: the stone had been placed directly on the corpse. There's no indication that it had ever been in a coffin. With the skeletal arrangement at the bottom, the coffin would have to be square rather than classical. He'd never encountered such a practice. And the strangest thing was that after so many years since the burial—assuming the tree roots had truly been as old as they were—the bones were in such good condition. That's not to say it was impossible; he had occasionally unearthed well-preserved human remains, even in very old burial sites, but it had been a long time since he'd seen a skeleton in such good condition. He felt that a possible explanation lay in that stone slab. He descended into the grave again, put on his glasses, and began examining both halves very carefully. He found nothing unusual. He was about to return to the surface because he thought he heard sounds; Skowronek had probably returned when it occurred to him to turn the slab over. After pulling it out of the niche, they laid it on top of the bones. He now turned both halves over, brushing away the remaining sand that had clung to the surface with his hand. He noticed a few faint, rounded lines; it was difficult to immediately tell whether they were natural scratches or the work of human hands. The stone on that side was only hewn, unpolished. At that moment, Skowronek also descended.

"I have it," he said, "I just had to change the batteries because the flashlight wouldn't work anymore." He showed the old man a cheap camera. "Just a regular one, but it takes good pictures," he added.

He uncovered the lens, pointed it at the fallen skeleton, and fired the flash.

"Paweł, look at this plate. I turned it over, and it looks like there's something on it. Or maybe I'm just imagining it. You have better eyes." Fornol rose from his knees and made way for Skowronek. "I'll get a broom and a rag, I have it in my bag, I need to wipe it dry, it'll be easier to see. "

He emerged from the grave and after a moment tossed the items to Skowronek.

"Indeed, there's something written here," the man replied after a moment. "We'll wait a moment for it to dry. Oh, I bought four beers, they're in the bag on my bike, open two, I'll be right out."

He took two more photos from different angles and then emerged.

"You're right, there's something scratched into it, like letters or numbers, we'll wait, it'll be easier to see soon."

They took a few healthy swigs from their cans, lit cigarettes, and watched the main gate. A few women were already milling among the graves.

"We have to hurry, people are arriving, someone will still think to look in here."

Fornol glanced around.

"Okay, let's go down."

The symbols carved into the stone were arranged in four horizontal rows. Beneath them, they could immediately decipher the number 1798. The surface of the slab had dried enough to become noticeably lighter than all the dents and scratches that still retained some moisture. They had chosen the perfect moment to try to read the letters scratched with a sharp object. They examined the inscription from all sides but couldn't make out the symbols.

"I don't recognize these letters, I don't know what's written here. It's like something in Russian or something, I recognize the 'i' easily, here, here, and here"—Fornol pointed to the symbols on the slab with his finger—"e" and a capital 'U', but I can't do the rest." This looks like an "a" to me, but they're all so ornate and curled." Fornol was disappointed and impatient. "Take a picture of the inscription, but up close. That number is probably the year, but the rest is black magic.

" "Uh, I don't think it's Russian. I still remember the letters from school, but I don't know these ones." Skowronek moved the camera close enough that he could clearly see the inscription in the viewfinder. After each snap of the shutter, he slightly changed the distance from the plate, trying to find the perfect distance. He took five pictures.

The old man suddenly laughed loudly and slapped his forehead. "And I was stupid, I saw Russian letters in those. They're Gothic letters! Of course, that's how they wrote in Prussia back then." The old man pulled a worn notebook from his pocket, leafed through it for a while until he found a blank page, and with a short pencil began copying the inscription.

"In Prussia?

" "Who do you think had a say in this two hundred years ago? Silesia was in Prussian hands."

"Prussian or German?

" "Sure. It's in German. I know German, but I can't fucking read it!" Fornol couldn't stand still anymore.

"We'll show this to my mom*, she went to a German school long before the war, maybe she can handle it." Skowronek was also starting to get excited.

"How are you going to show her? What, will you bring her here?" Fornol smiled to himself.

"Ah! I'll show her the photo. But now we're going to cover it up or someone will fucking lick it. And right away! We have the photos, no need to hesitate."

He picked up a spade and, after leaning the half with the inscription against the grave wall, began digging a small hole.

"What, collecting bones?"

Fornol nodded and helped him carry the bones to the hole. He gathered a few in his hand, occasionally lifting them to eye level, examining them carefully, and then gently placing them on the bottom. Once they had moved all the remains to the chosen spot, they covered them with sand and a slab.

"I'll go up and dump some sand, and you fill the gap as best you can," Fornol quickly climbed to the surface. The sun, now fully clear of the clouds, had managed to slightly dry the thin layer on top of the mounds.

Skowronek threw pach into the niche until it finally began to spill back into the grave.

"Enough," he shouted to the man above, "no more will come in, it's all good now."

They paved the wall so that no one would suspect they'd recovered anything.

Then they quickly assembled a platform around the grave.

They stored their tools in the cemetery chapel and left the cemetery, walking their bicycles side by side. They stopped briefly at the gate.

"What time will you be at the pub?" Skowronek asked as they left.

"I don't know if I'll go at all, something's been weighing on my nerves. I'll have a mulled beer with honey and lemon at home and watch a movie. I don't really feel like doing anything today."

They said goodbye and went their separate ways.