The Graveyard by Marek Hlasko Read Free Book Online Page B

brightened again. “You see,” he said in a tired voice, “here I sit behind my desk; everything seems to be all right; but wherever you look—the enemy is vigilant …” He drummed on the glass plate with his clumsy fingers. “We must be vigilant,” he said. “We must be constantly on our guard, Franciszek. Our people are inexperienced: they deviate; they succumb to whispering campaigns; it’s easy to break them down … Take Baniewicz. We sent him to the miners as an agitator—he did a good job. We sent him as our delegate to the scrap-collection campaign—he did well there too. He was top man in the clean-up Warsaw campaign; he even got a certificate. In our amateur theatricals he works like a fiend: he dances, sings, acts—some even say he has a good deal of talent. To look at him you’d say he was pure gold. And now, all of a sudden—plop!”
    Once again he buried his face in his hands. His mouth drooped pitiably. “I shouldn’t bother him at such a moment,” Franciszek thought. But he swallowed hard, and said: “Listen, I’m late for work—I was out all morning. What I want to tell you won’t take five minutes. Yesterday, as I was going home from the meeting, I met an old friend of mine from the underground, a wonderful fellow. He was deputy commanderof our unit; now he’s executive manager of a big construction project in the provinces somewhere.” He paused, and sighed heavily. “That’s all it was—an unexpected meeting, two old friends … We went to a bar to talk about old times, and—there’s no point hiding it—I drank a bit. Then we separated—”
    Someone knocked at the door, and Franciszek stopped.
    “Come in,” said the secretary.
    The door opened slightly; a man looked in, and, seeing that the secretary was not alone, was about to withdraw, but the secretary repeated, “Come in, come in.”
    A short man with a splendid shock of gray hair and nervous hands entered the room.
    “I’m listening, Citizen Jarzebowski,” the secretary said. “Make yourself at home, sit down.”
    The newcomer sat down, folding his nervous hands on his knees. His hair shone in the artificial light of the bulb.
    “Well, what’s on your mind, Citizen Jarzebowski?” the secretary asked. He glanced at Franciszek and tapped his forehead with his hand. “But of course you don’t know each other, that’s true. Our new head bookkeeper, Citizen Jarzebowski; Comrade Kowalski, assistant technical director. Citizen Jarzebowski is new here,” he explained to Franciszek. “He’s a nonparty activist. He is going to conduct a glee club as part of our social program.”
    “Yes, yes,” Jarzebowski said eagerly, smiling at Franciszek. “Perhaps you’d like to join us?”
    “What?”
    “Would you do us the favor of joining our club and singing with us?”
    “Me?” asked Franciszek, surprised.
    “Why of course, what’s so strange about that?” Jarzebowski said in a slightly offended tone. “What part wouldyou like to sing? Baritone? Tenor? I suppose a baritone; you don’t look like a bass—no offense meant. We’re having our first rehearsal today after work—we’re going to sing ‘The March of the Enthusiasts.’ How does it strike you?”
    “I might at that if I can fit it in,” Franciszek stammered.
    Jarzebowski inclined his gray head with dignity. “I shall await your kind answer,” he said.
    The secretary said: “Well, what’s on your mind, Citizen Jarzebowski? Speak up, come to the point; talk like one of us, a workingman.”
    “My dear sir,” Jarzebowski stammered, turning red with pleasure, “this is a great honor—I mean, your kind expression, ‘like one of us’—but you see, my dear sir,” here he lowered his eyes with embarrassment, “unfortunately I am not with you because of my convictions; but, if I may say so, you will be good enough to understand, I hope—I am—I was—a landowner. I mean I have been a progressive since I was a boy, rather Left Wing,