A Blessing on the Moon Read Online Free PDF Page A

in.
    Andrzej nods and grunts, encouraging the talk. It’s evident he’s enjoying the conversation.
    Jaroslaw replies, “The yids disappear and the moon disappears and you’re telling me they didn’t take it?”
    “Where
are
the yids anyway?” cousin Zygmunt insists.
    “What do you care?”
    “Maybe whoever took the yids took the moon?”
    “Possible, it’s possible,” Bronislaw murmurs.
    “So? So what? Who cares?” Andrzej barks, dealing out a new hand.
    “But Andrzej, you think they’ll stop with the moon?” cousin Zygmunt says. “Soon they’ll want the stars and then the entire planetary system!”
    “The soldiers have been asking around.”
    “So what do they know?”
    “They may think
we
took it.”
    “Don’t tell them anything.”
    “The whole thing gives me the creeps,” says Zygmunt and he pretends to shiver.
    “But we don’t use it, Zygmunt!” Andrzej nearly shouts. “It’s a useless little nothing of a planet. There’s no purpose in making a government case!”

9
    She no longer bathes, this Ola, and barely eats. Her room is locked from the inside and no one knows how she clears her bowels.
    “I’m leaving a pot near the door! Do you hear, Ola?” the Mama calls through the wall but, of course, a reply is denied her. There is no answer of any kind. I’m in the hallway, tapping my palms against the head of my walking stick, curious how the confrontation will turn out. With so much time on my hands, it’s only too easy to involve myself with gossip and trivia and matters of fleeting consequence such as the Serafinski family drama. During my life I gave no time to such things, and now to think that I’m wasting my death on them! But how else am I to fill my days?
    The Mama has given up all hope. She leaves the pot in the hall, and her heavy body trudges down the staircase. A moment later, the door to Ola’s room opens soundlessly and a skinny grey arm slinks through the crack, like a blind eel, to retrieve the copper pot. The smells thatescape from the room are overwhelming and I clutch a blood-smeared kerchief to my nose.
    “Is that you, Ola? Are you coming down?” “Let her stay up there until she rots!” “Shhh, Andrzej, shhh, she’ll hear!” “But Mamuśku, her room stinks.” “Both of you, enough! She’ll hear, she’ll hear!” “Let her. What do I care if she hears?”
    Their competing voices rush, as if racing, to the top of the stairs, but the click of the lock on Ola’s door silences the house, leaving only their furtive whisperings to continue on below.
    Stealthily, I creep over to Ola’s door, protecting my nostrils with the cloth, and peer again through the little keyhole. I should be ashamed of myself, and yet my curiosity will not let me rest. What I see unnerves me. The girl is shivering, wrapped in a dirty bedsheet. She sways from side to side in the rocking chair. So thin is she that the light from the windows nearly shines through her greyish skin. Her body contracts into itself, her knees rise up and her elbows lock into her chest. She wheezes like an ancient bellows, coughing up a bloody plug of phlegm. There is slime and feces all about the floor and even on the bed.
    “Enough, Ola! Open the door at once!”
    So mesmerized had I become staring at this hellish sight that I failed to notice the father, Big Andrzej, standing over me, pounding with his clenched white fists against the door.
    “Ola, do you hear!”
    “Murderer!” she shouts.
    “Ola!”
    “Murdering pig!”
    “You’re making yourself sick over nothing!”
    “I hate you, hate you! Do you hear me? Go away!”
    Andrzej leans his heavy bulk against the doorframe, a small craft turned back by the gales of his daughter’s stormy emotions. He opens a hand to pull at his big black mustache. I pity him, I can’t help myself, daughters can be difficult and these villagers are simple people, peasants unused to the spirits of high-strung girls. Cutting wood, milking cows, slaughtering