Necessary Lies. Eva Stachniak

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СКАЧАТЬ of the constant lookout for things that could be traded, of hair washed with egg yolk and teeth brushed with baking soda. It was all terrible, humiliating, she said. Nothing worked, nothing was available. Marie did not agree. Her own parents still remembered the Great Depression in St. Emile. There was nothing humiliating about resilience, she said. Nothing to be ashamed of.

      From their long talk that first day, just a few clips were used in a collage of voices Marie summoned to express the feeling of the impending catastrophe among Polish refugees. In her documentary, politicians warned of military retaliation, crowds in front of the Soviet embassy in Ottawa chanted their demands for freedom. “Nothing would make me go back, now,” a man’s voice declared. “There is no hope.” Then came Anna’s voice, describing the life of shortages. High-pitched, she thought, and strained. And then a young woman’s voice, shaky, bordering on tears, “I have a three-year-old son and a husband who are trying to leave before the doors close. I’m praying every day that they make it.”

      The McGill library was getting hot and stuffy. Anna shifted in her chair, her back muscles begging for relief.

      Round two in Poland, she read. Warsaw puts military patrols in the streets as Solidarity resumes its rebellious national congress. Military officials were being deployed in every Polish village, amidst uneasy explanations that their sole purpose was to combat corruption. General Jaruzelski, whose hollow face and dark glasses she now saw regularly alongside Solidarity leaders, announced the formation of a Committee of National Salvation. Hopeful stories were recalled of his family estate confiscated by the Soviets in their 1939 invasion of Poland, of his family deported to Siberia, of his youth spent in Soviet camps where his eyelids cracked from burning sun, of slave labour that injured his back and took the life of his father. Was the man in dark glasses, she read, a faithful servant of a powerful master, or a man waiting for his chance?

      No, Piotr would never think of leaving. No matter how long the line-ups for food, however easily whatever freedoms they still had would be crushed. Oh, yes, he would agree with her that their lives were outrageous, would fume at the necessity of nights spent sitting on folded chairs in front of stores to secure a place in a line-up for a car battery, a refrigerator, a bed. But shortages, he argued, were nothing more but another proof that Communism had failed, gone bankrupt, and would have to go.

      Their last evening in Wroclaw, they drank the warm beer in widnicka Cellar and held hands across the table, the top now smelling of the rotting rag with which the waitress had wiped it. Piotr chose to ignore the foul smell and the obvious resistance of the waitress.

      I’ll miss you, darling,” he whispered. “Why am I letting you go? Come back soon!”

      They had been married for ten years. They had never parted for long.

      “I will.”

      She stopped herself from saying anything else. In the car his hand was already making its way inside her blouse, brushing her breast. She could feel her nipples stiffen, making their delicious pulsating promise.

      If anyone had told her that this was the time she might fall in love with another man, she would have laughed. Friends she would make, of course, that she knew. But love?

      Newcomers to McGill were all invited to an afternoon at the Faculty Club, and Anna arrived there slightly resentful of having to waste the whole afternoon she could have spent in the library. She never liked big parties and now when Canadian writers were beginning to intrigue her, she felt she had so little time left. From Poland, Canada seemed like a vast, blank sheet of prosperity. Only with its writers did the whiteness take on the first shades of colour. She read, mesmerised by what was emerging before her, the sharpening contours, the hues.

      Marie I’Incarnation dreamed of walking into a vast, silent landscape of precipitous mountains, valleys and fog until she came to a small marble church. The Virgin with Jesus sat on its roof, talking about Marie and about Canada. Then the Virgin smiled and kissed her three times. It was a sign, the French nun wrote, to come here and make a house for Jesus and Mary, among the Hurons.

      Anna read stories of forced conversions, of New World blankets harbouring the killer germs, decimating the Huron villages. Of French farmers clinging to their language and religion amidst a sea of English. Of being told one was only good to carry water and serve one’s betters. Of the revenge of the cradles and the Quiet Revolution. Of the miracles, shrines, and protests. Of martial law and fervent, thwarted hopes for independence.

      “Isn’t it just like in Poland, now,” Marie’s friends often said. Anna liked them a lot, these men with bushy long hair, chain smoking Gitanes, and the women who, hearing she just came from Poland, hugged and kissed her, assuring her the Polish people were marveilleuse and formidable. They made her admit that Le Devoir had far more coverage of the crisis in Poland than The Montreal Gazette.

      “You should understand us so well, Anna! We, too, are struggling for our independence, here. For our way of life! Our very survival is at stake!”

      “No, it isn’t like Poland,” she kept telling them. But only Marie would agree with her.

      At the entrance to the wood-panelled hall she was given a name tag to stick to her dress. It said, Anna Nowicka, Poland. Visiting scholar. Department of English. Her resentment evaporated. She was charmed by the ease with which conversations started. “I just thought I would come up and say hello,” was all that was needed.

      “No, my husband couldn’t come with me,” she tried to explain if anyone asked. Passports were not easily given to families, and, besides, Piotr couldn’t really just leave. He was teaching civil law at Wroclaw University, he was a legal adviser to a local Solidarity chapter. No, of course it wasn’t the best of solutions, but what else could they do.

      “A girl from Breslau!” That was William’s voice, raised in amazement. “Where are you from in Poland?” he had asked, and she said, “Wroclaw,” prepared for the need to explain once again the shifting borders of post-war Europe, the story of the territories gained and lost in which a German city became part of Poland. But he did not ask her for explanations.

      “A girl from Breslau!” he repeated. “What a coincidence!”

      “Wroclaw,” her mother would protest, each syllable a distinct, resonant beat. Vro tswav! That’s how she would say it, Vro tswav, her face locked in a tense grimace of mistrust.

      William’s eyes narrowed with pleasure as he smiled at Anna. He was wearing a black turtleneck under an open shirt — yellow and red patches twirling on the fabric as if spun by a juggler’s hand. His beard, trimmed short, made her think of the plumage of some rare silver bird. He had brought her a glass of wine, and she was holding it so tightly that the shape of the stem imprinted itself on the palm of her hand.

      She knew he liked her, felt it in his eyes, in his smile, in the growing intensity with which his blue eyes took in the curls of her hair, the movements of her head. As if, with every move, with each simple gesture, she was accomplishing something truly extraordinary, something no one else, ever, could have done.

      “So you do know where it is?” she asked him, brushing her hair back, away from her face.

      The days were still warm and she was wearing a loose Indian dress she had bought in a store on St. Laurent. It was a black cotton dress with purple patches, the shape of falling leaves.

      “Are you surprised?”

      “Yes.”

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